Livin' On A Prayer
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: How much difference can knowing one small truth really make? What kind of change can the presence of one person affect? In 1983, Heaven and Hell put into motion their plans for Michael and Lucifer's vessels;plans that would, in the name of the Apocalypse, leave that family in tatters. But the Winchesters aren't about to take it lying down. BACK FROM HIATUS!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

* * *

_Humans. Fragile, short-lived mortals who, by all rights, shouldn't be nearly as important as they are. _

_My Father made them, loved them, ordered us to protect them. He even gave them a Gift—the ability to choose their own fates, their own place in the universe, their own role in the massive Story we're all living._

_He called it Free Will._

_Usually, it doesn't much matter. They're like ants; crawling around on a tiny verdant ball on the edge of an average galaxy. Billions of them, there are; and though they like to believe they matter, the reality is that very few of them ever get Our attention. Only the select few that will change the course of actual human history garner Our consideration—and when they do, it is shamefully easy to…_guide_…them in the right direction._

_They are such simple creatures._

_There is not even any originality in their motivation—every human on tiny little Earth is motivated by exactly one thing:_

_Love._

_Love of money and love of material goods are the easiest by far to manipulate, for an angel can conjure anything with but a thought. Alexander ('The Great', they call him) was one we reached young. A textbook case that we use as a template now—all Hael had to do was promise him untold riches, and he raised an army to take over the entire known world._

_Love of life is universal amongst humans—even the sad, pathetic ones hang onto life with a desperate sort of determination. They can be easily talked around to any task we have for them simply with the assurance they can live, and live happily._

_Love of others is a little more complicated to work with, but we manage. Even a martyr will outright murder an innocent to save One to whom they are devoted. We only have to twist the situation to our advantage, and we suddenly have our way._

_Of course, we have a hierarchy of our own to deal with, and only the Highest of Us decide what "our way" is. The lower-ranking among us think every situation we manipulate, every person we persuade, is part of a bigger plan in our Father's heart, and they're happy to comply, certain that the orders come from Him._

_Because they are angels, and their only motivation is love, too. _

_Love for their Father._

_And, like the humans, they are pathetically easy to manipulate._

_For instance, down on that tiny little speck of a planet right now, in a small town in North America, Hell is putting into action a plan they don't know We know about. One of their highest-ranking is travelling across the United States, finding children who are possible vessels for Lucifer, in preparation for the Apocalypse. They don't know we already have a countermove in place, ready to be deployed. The particular family Azazel is visiting tonight is one that has had Our attention for a good while now—the Winchesters are, quite possibly, more important than any other humans in history have ever been. Of course they don't know that, Hell doesn't know it, Azazel doesn't know it, even the majority of angels don't know it._

_But I do._

_For the eldest of the three Winchester children is destined to be my vessel in the coming battle. The youngest, my brother's. And the middle child, created to protect them both until their fate is fulfilled._

_Heaven's Vessel._

_Hell's Vessel._

_And the Guardian._

_My Father created humans with Free Will, but He also created them with the capacity to Love; and I wonder if He realized that the two are mutually exclusive, for once a human (or angel) Loves, he is enslaved to object of his affection and will never choose otherwise._

_And it is that knowledge which assures me, that regardless of what the Winchesters believe or think or decide when they find out the truth, we will have our way._

_The Apocalypse will take place. And the Winchesters will make it happen._

_They really have no choice._

* * *

**A/N: Welcome** to my SPN fic, everyone! Please note this is a re-work of my first foray into Supernatural fan fiction, _The Ties That Bind_. The big picture plot is the same, I just think I can do better at presenting it; so if you're coming over from that fic, welcome! And don't worry, I'm not recycling most of the same material, so you won't be reading all the same stuff over again.

I'm relatively new to the fandom (coming up on a year since the Brothers Winchester crashed what was left of my sanity), but I love these boys intensely and, like many before me, am fascinated by the idea of them having a sister. My muse went crazy at the idea, and _voila!_ Kate was born. But as the story took shape, well...it's not like any sis fic I've seen yet, so that could be a good or bad thing. We'll see. :P

At any rate, welcome and thanks for reading! Enjoy, and please don't hesitate to leave a review or drop me a PM with your opinions or questions! Feedback feeds my writer brain!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

* * *

Dean Winchester stared at the laptop screen intently, eyes scanning the words and mouse clicking periodically. To the average passerby, he would seem to be deeply engrossed in research of some kind—not at all an odd sight, here on the sunny porch of a coffee shop in northern Missouri.

The truth was, he'd already found what he was looking for online, and was instead engaged in some covert research of an entirely different kind.

His sister Kate was sitting across from him at the little stainless steel table, scribbling furiously in a notebook, blonde hair falling in her face. Hunters kept journals, it wasn't so odd for her to be writing; but this wasn't the studious, organized longhand she used in her official journal, to be referred back to when they needed information or lore. This was what Dean secretly called her Brain Scrawl—she was sorting through random bits of information in her head and trying to find a pattern. He bit back a grin as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, tapping her pen against her jaw in a muted show of frustration. The amusement was gone as quickly as it had come, though, and Dean felt the familiar tightening in his gut as he pictured—_again_—the way her (okay, the _shape-shifter's_) face had twisted into despairing hatred two days ago:

"_I just wanted to get _away_ from you! Planned to put the gun _you gave me _to my own head in order to make it happen. Did you know that?"_

Refusing to let himself spiral into a never-ending litany of _what did I do wrong?_ and _how could I have missed it?_, Dean shifted in his seat, letting his gaze drift momentarily to his _other_ sibling, the one he was even more worried about. Sam had been obsessed with finding Dad lately, to the point he was driving Kate to _Scrawl_ in an attempt to tease out any details they'd missed. Dean wanted to find Dad too—Stanford had been a close call, _way_ _too_ _friggin' close_—but he recognized this single-minded intensity, and he didn't like it.

Sam was acting exactly like Dad had after Mom's death. And much as he'd never _ever_ admit it, Dean cherished the curious, fiery vivacity that was Sam Winchester; and he couldn't stand the idea of that fire becoming the dogged, destructive near-mania that Hunting had become for their father after Mary's demise. He hated that he was so helpless in the face of Sammy's grief, but he refused to lose the kid.

Dad's constant orders to _watch out for Sammy_ extended far beyond his brother's physical health, in Dean's book.

The kid hung up the pay phone he'd been on moments earlier and turned back toward their table, tension in every line of his posture. Deciding that needling Sam might get his mind off his irritation with the current situation, he called, "Hey, your half-caf, double vanilla latte is gettin' cold over here, _Francis_."

"Bite me," Sam snapped as he sat down. Dean tried not to grin, then asked—because he really did want to know—"So, anything?" Kate looked up too.

Sam shook his head, and their sister huffed a bit and went back to scribbling. "I had them check the FBI's Missing Persons Data Bank," Sam reported. "No John Doe's fitting Dad's description. I even ran his plates for traffic violations."

"Dad's not that sloppy," Kate muttered from across the table, and Sam's hackles went up instantly.

"Yeah well, at least I'm doing more than just—"

"Sam, man, I'm telling you," Dean interrupted, before his little brother said something stupid and started a fight. "I don't think Dad wants to be found."

Miracle of miracles, Sam said nothing more, settling instead for a truly pathetic expression that reminded Dean of a kicked puppy. "Check this out," he pushed the laptop over to Sam to divert all that angst. "Ankeny, Iowa. It's only about a hundred miles from here."

Kate looked up from her paper, checking in as Sam began to read the online news article. ""The mutilated body was found near the victim's car, parked on Nine Mile Road. Authorities are unable to provide a realistic description of the killer. The sole eyewitness, whose name has been withheld, is quoted as saying the attacker was…_invisible_."

"Well that certainly sounds dicey," Kate supplied.

"Though it could be nothing at all," Sam said. "One freaked out witness? Doesn't mean it's the Invisible Man—"

Dean opened his mouth to speak when Kate's phone rang, buzzing loudly against the table. She snatched it, squinting a little to see the screen in the bright sun. Dean cocked an eyebrow when she quirked a little smile and flipped the phone open.

"Well if it ain't trouble personified," she greeted, and Dean felt his lips curve upward in a smile. He grinned over at Sam, who was looking at the screen, still reading, though his own expression was faintly amused. They both knew Olivia Tucker, Walking Encyclopedia and Kick-Ass Extraordinaire. A protégé of their Uncle Bobby, Olivia had come late into the hunting lifestyle but had taken to it like a fish to water. She was brilliant—almost as smart as Sammy, Dean thought ruefully—loyal to a fault, and freaking _gorgeous_. Unfortunately for him, she was just old enough and had known him just long enough to still see the fourteen-year-old kid she'd first met all those years ago when Bobby had taken her under his wing, a fledgling hunter but very definitely a grown woman.

He had yet to convince her he was all grown up, he commiserated silently as Kate agreed with something Liv said on the other end of the line.

_Ah well. Someday._

Dean's pleasant daydreams were scattered when Kate's face froze. "_What?_" she croaked. Sam looked up from the laptop at her tone of voice, instantly dialed in to her every expression. Her blue eyes were wide and she ran a hand through thick blonde waves, clearly agitated. She was going to start pacing in a second, Dean was sure of it.

"You're _joking_," she said, pushing her chair back with a rattle as she stood. She took two steps and turned, rubbing her free hand against her jeans.

_Called it._

"Yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can. Okay, bye."

"What happened?" Sam asked before she even flipped the phone closed. Kate stopped mid-pace and looked at her brothers. The way her brow furrowed told him it was serious. "It's about Dad, isn't it?" Sam's brilliant brain, as always, putting pieces together and extrapolating answers at lightning speed. Kate's nod was all Dean needed to see before he was moving. Sam closed the laptop with a snap and they both gathered their things hurriedly.

"Invisible Man will just have to wait then," Dean said, snatching his coat from the back of the chair. Sam nodded fiercely, but Kate stopped pacing, as if she just realized what they were doing.

"What?" she said. "No, you guys, you have to—"

"We _have_ to find Dad, is what we have to do!" Sam declared.

"It's not like that, it's not a _lead_," Kate interjected. "She just wants to talk about what he said when he called her the other day, but it's not…phone conversation material. Needs to be in person." Kate caught Dean's arm. "You can't leave people to die over a recon mission, Dean. It's just information, I can get it and be back in a day or two."

Dean hesitated—she was right, but he hated it. It was about _Dad_; and besides, after the shape-shifter fiasco, he was loath to let her or Sammy out of his sight. That hunt had been a total wreck that they'd barely survived, and the emotional fallout was something they were all still trying to deal with.

"Dean," Sam's voice was urgent, desperate. "He could be in real trouble…"

"It's _not a lead_," Kate stressed. "Sam, it would be irresponsible to—"

"I don't care!" Sam growled, and Dean placed a hand on his brother's chest. "Sammy, enough. She's right, it makes sense for her to just go while we take care of this next hunt, and then we'll—"

Sam jerked away. "No!"

Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes. This was _ridiculous_. He yanked his giant little brother away by his jacket, not wanting to cause a scene right here in the busy parking lot. He saw Kate follow at a sedate pace, staying close enough to hear Dean's verdict but far enough back that if he gave Sam a dressing-down, she wouldn't be standing right there making him feel ganged-up-on.

Dean pulled Sam into the alley behind the coffee shop and let his jacket go, clamping a hand on his brother's shoulder. Sam seemed to realize what was coming, because he jerked back, straightened his lapel, all while glaring daggers at Dean.

"Use that freakishly large brain of yours, Sammy," Dean ordered, holding up a hand when Sam opened his mouth to interject. "I know you want to find Dad, we _all_ do. But we can't just go off half-cocked and chasing shadows! We've got to be smart about this."

Sam didn't argue, just growled low in his throat.

"And _you_," Dean pointed at Kate, who tensed and came forward a few steps. She _hated_ it when he leveled a finger at her like that, and he knew it, but he needed her to know he was deadly serious. "No matter what Liv tells you, you _wait for us_ before you run off after Dad. If she even _has_ any leads. Hear me?"

His sister nodded, holding his gaze to show she wasn't taking his orders lightly. "Of course."

Satisfied, Dean dropped his hand. "All right. Come on, we'll give you a lift to the bus station."

* * *

The bus ride to Ohio was nothing spectacular one way or another. Kate was tired, but there was no way she was going to sleep on a bus full of strangers, for any amount of time. She was travelling alone on public transportation—_vigilance_ was the name of the game tonight.

So she spent the hours as she often spent any mental free time she came upon: carefully examining and sorting through her thoughts. Their lifestyle was about as stressful and fast-paced as lifestyles came, and there wasn't always time to process things while they were happening. Kate had learned early on that it was best to take a few hours to herself once in a while to deal with her fear, her anger, her trauma, her grief.

And the last few months had given her plenty to think on.

She was relieved beyond measure to have Sammy back with them, there was no denying that. She wished with every fiber of her being the circumstances had been different—she couldn't stand the thought of Sam losing someone else he loved—but things had been so _right_ since he started hunting with her and Dean again. When he had talked about going to college—_nearly five years ago now_, she realized with some level of shock—Kate had supported the idea wholeheartedly. She knew Dean would never go; she'd had to convince him to get his GED after he dropped out of school. It wasn't that he was unintelligent—quite the opposite, actually—just that he honestly believed he would never be able to leave the Life, so why spend all that time and money on more "useless" education?

She blamed her father for that, and it wasn't an easy thing to forgive. John had raised them to be soldiers—and unlike Sam or her, Dean had accepted and internalized that directive to the point that she sometimes thought he couldn't see himself as anything outside that identity.

Kate herself had decided early in high school to attend college online. Unbeknownst to Dad, she had started squirreling away money for it—skipping meals when she could, hustling card games, tutoring students at the schools they did attend—determined to learn everything she could about business management and nursing that she possibly could, with some Latin and ancient mythology thrown in for good measure. Between partial scholarships and her own money, she'd had enough to start taking a couple classes at a time as a junior; at the age of twenty-four, she had become the quietly-proud holder of a bachelor's degree in Business Management. Dean's face when she had whispered it to him one night after a rough hunt, as he sewed up a long gash in her shoulder, had made every late night and skipped meal worth it. He was _proud_ of her, and Kate wasn't too tough to admit that made her all kinds of thrilled.

_Still haven't told Sammy yet,_ she realized with some surprise. There'd just been too much happening lately.

Promising herself she'd show Sam at the earliest possible opportunity, Kate checked back into the present long enough to sharpen her senses and check her surroundings. The bus was quiet; most of the passengers were sleeping at this hour, the driver humming quietly to himself at the front—no odd smells, it was warm and comfortable—all was well.

Settling back against the cool window with her leather jacket tossed over her chest like a blanket, Kate sighed and let her mind go to her most recent trauma—the shape-shifter.

Having that thing in her head had been a violation all its own, and the dark thoughts and fears it teased from the depths of her consciousness to throw at her brother had been intensely cruel. It had told Dean she hated him—which she had thought momentarily exactly _once_, as an angst-ridden teenager—and then twisted that feeling of betrayed fury into something much larger than it really was and gone on to monologue about how badly she wanted him dead, how she wished she'd never been born into their family, how she'd seriously considered eating a bullet just to get away from him.

Of course, having her most awful secret used as a club to bludgeon Dean with had gutted her. She hadn't wanted to end her life—during that horrible, lonely time not so many years ago—to get away from _Dean_, of course, they _both_ knew that; but he saw his primary purpose in life to protect her and Sammy, and knowing she had been that low and he hadn't even seen it hurt him deeply.

Knowing that, and also knowing how Dean was, she'd written him a letter the night after they killed the thing and stowed it in his bag. He tended to do better with letters—seemed to feel less cornered when she said what she wanted to say in writing instead of to his face.

But judging by the vague horror that his eyes still held that morning when he'd looked at her, he hadn't seen it yet. She hoped he saw it soon; she hated the idea of her own issues wounding Dean, who had never wanted anything but the best for her and Sammy.

Kate's thoughts continued like this for another few hours, so that by the time they pulled into the bus station in Akron, she was satisfied she was put together enough to function for a good while longer—and doubly glad to have something to do now other than sit and think.

Liv's safe house was in a small town called—get this—Miniton, barely an hour's drive outside Akron. It was a small matter of a couple conveniently-placed tears and a smile for Kate to bum a ride out there, and so she arrived at her friend's cabin near midday. She grinned and climbed the steps to the wraparound porch quickly. Kate knocked twice, waited five seconds, and knocked three more times; the established code between the Winchesters and their closest friends. Olivia answered, brown eyes narrowed as she leveled a shotgun at her through the crack between the door and frame by way of greeting. Kate held up both hands with a grin.

"Nice to see you, Liv."

Liv's lips quirked upward in a smile. "How are you?" she asked as she swung the door open for Kate. "Come on in."

Kate stepped inside, hugging the older hunter in greeting. "I'm fine, we all are; Sammy's back on the road."

"So I heard. How's that going?"

Kate laughed a little. "It's taking a bit of adjustment; we have to learn to work together again. But it's like riding a bike, a bit—it's coming back to us."

"I'm not surprised. But is he back for good? I thought Sam hated the Life."

"I think he still does, honestly. He's around at least until we find whatever killed our mom and his girlfriend," Kate compressed her lips into a thin line and cocked an eyebrow, looking away.

_I don't want him to leave again. _

"Speaking of," Liv said, sinking comfortably into the leather couch in the front room. Kate stood, knowing she'd end up on her feet by the time this conversation was over anyway. Liv looked at her steadily, something Kate couldn't identify in her eyes.

"What?" she asked finally, anxious. Liv blew out a breath.

"Your dad might be hunting a demon."

Kate felt like there was no oxygen left in the room. Her throat spasmed convulsively, and she swallowed to prevent herself choking. "A _demon_?" her voice came out all wrong—panicky and shaking instead of the steady one she could usually maintain in the worst of situations.

Olivia seemed to understand, nodding sympathetically. "He was asking me about the lore behind them—where they come from, behavioral patterns, et cetera. How to kill them."

Kate swallowed. Demons were nothing to play games with. Vicious, brutal souls that were nothing but evil; most monsters the Winchesters hunted had a reason for their behavior—hunger, most often, or sometimes grief, pain, rage. Demons had none of that—just a sadistic desire to see pain inflicted on anyone but themselves.

Pure, unadulterated malice was all they could feel.

Worst of all, they were basically impossible to kill. If you could buy yourself a few seconds, an exorcism would send them back to hell; but killing? She'd never seen or heard of it being done at all.

Kate had (_thankfully_) never run into a demon in her admittedly-short life; but she'd never forget stumbling upon a hunter who had crossed a demon when she was a teenager, fairly new to the life of a hunter herself. The older man had been ripped to shreds, but his heart had still been beating when she found him. Slowly, and worst of all, _visibly_ in his shattered chest.

It was one of the few times in her life she'd lost control completely. Screaming, losing control, running-simply-out-of-primal-instinct level _panic_. Dean had found her almost half an hour later, cowering in a corner and barely conscious with horror; it had taken every big-brother skill in the book to coax her back to some semblance of normalcy after he carried her out of the warehouse himself.

"I told him the basics," Liv continued. "Demons are hell's minions, they look like a cloud of black smoke, possess human hosts and use up their bodies, usually so the unfortunate bastard can't survive once the demon leaves."

Kate shuddered, leaning on the wooden windowsill. It was dusty, and she drew her hand away, making to brush it on her jeans, when the dust caught her eye. It was yellow—odd enough—but it also smelled awful, pungent and acrid.

_Like sulfur._

* * *

**A/N:** And so it begins. Hang on tight, it's gonna be a wild ride! Big shout outs and thank you's to **What You See In The Shadows** (for being a fellow fan and super rad buddy!) and **summerald** (for beta-ing this for me)! Y'all make sure to go check out their awesome work!

Don't forget to leave a review or pop me a pm-your feedback feeds my writer brain! Nom nom nom.

Cheers!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 **

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

* * *

Kate pried her eyes open, squinting hard against the sunlight. Usually she loved waking to sunshine on her face, but something…wasn't _right_, this time. Her head was pounding, the pain centered above her right ear. She stretched, raising her hands behind her head as she took in a deep breath—

_Wait._

She couldn't move. And her chest ached when she breathed in. And agony stabbed through her head like a hot knife with every beat of her heart. Kate gasped as everything came rushing back.

_They'd been talking about demons. She had shuddered, leaning on the wooden windowsill. It was dusty, and she drew her hand away, making to brush it on her jeans, when the dust caught her eye. It was yellow—odd enough—but it also smelled awful, pungent and acrid._

_Like sulfur._

_"I would tell you more, but it'd do you no good."_

_Kate had turned back to her friend. "What?"_

_She'd gasped to find Liv right up in her face, a feral smile lighting her features. The other huntress's eyes turned deep black, and Kate's hand went instantly to her knife. She never made it, an invisible force slamming her hard against the wood wall, her hands pinned to her sides, her heart beating loudly in her ears._

"_It's a bit too late for mere information to help you, girlie."_

_Liv snatched the knife from Kate's hand and raised it, brought it down impossibly fast, hilt first. The steel pommel struck her temple before she had a chance to protest, and everything went black._

"Look who's awake," Liv—_the demon_—said with a smile. Kate bit back a groan as she forced herself to focus on her friend's face. Liv looked just like herself, only with a smug expression the brilliant huntress would never have worn. "It's little Katie Winchester."

Kate gritted her teeth at the nickname—only her brothers and father were allowed such familiarity. Liv's face grinned wickedly. "Oh you don't like that, do you?" she taunted. "Tell me, do Daddy and Dean and Sammy call you Katie?"

"Go to hell," Kate growled, fingers working to loosen the knots that bound her wrists to the back of the wooden chair.

"Ah, been there," Liv laughed lightly. "It really is a charming place. But we're not here to talk about me."

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immun_—" Kate began, calling up the Latin exorcisms Dad had forced all three of them to memorize as kids; but she was cut off when a disembodied pressure closed invisible fingers around her throat, effectively shutting her up. She clenched her hands, wincing when the rough fibers cut into her skin.

"Now, now," the demon laughed. "None of that, dear. I don't want to kill you, you're far too valuable. So let's try this again." The pressure was released, and Kate gasped and coughed, chest aching. Spots danced before her eyes as she wheezed, "Who are you and what do you want?"

Loosening her fists forcibly, she let the demon think she had her full attention. Because whatever other skills this creature had, tying good knots was obviously not one of them. Or maybe it was just all those years of evasion and escape training.

"Ah, now we come to it," the response came. "My name is Phoebe, and I'm…well, you could consider me a broker, of sorts. I procure items of value and then sell them to the highest bidder." Liv's face darkened, and it sent a chill down Kate's spine. One of the knots slipped, and the pressure loosened. Kate pulled one wrist free, careful not to move her shoulder or bicep. "And I must tell you, the Winchesters—the whole set—would bring in enough to keep me happy and topside for a good long time."

"Well isn't that unfortunate for you," Kate answered, furious at the mention of her family. "Because you'll never get them all—they're too smart for that."

Phoebe laughed again. "Oh you poor child. And they said you were the intelligent one."

"Then you were sorely misinformed—"

"John Winchester is a positively legendary hunter, as I'm sure you're aware," the demon kept talking as if Kate hadn't said anything at all. "The man is simply unbeatable—outsmarting where he can't outmuscle—and he has quite the reputation amongst my colleagues. But he has exactly one weakness, and you're it. You and your brothers are the only thing John will do literally _anything_ to keep safe." Phoebe stepped closer, her face scant inches from Kate's, and cocked an eyebrow, daring the girl to respond.

Kate refused to look away. "I won't let you hurt him," she growled through clenched teeth. Her left arm ached as she eased it free of the mess of ropes.

Phoebe snorted. "As if you have a choice."

Kate moved quickly, the demon too close to her face to be aware of what her supposedly-tied extremities were doing. Rearing back, she ducked her head and slammed her skull into Liv's nose, perhaps more satisfied by the resulting crunch! than she ought to have been. She didn't wait to follow up, bringing her sore right arm around to land a solid punch to Liv's jaw. With a grunt, Phoebe went down, landing hard on her shoulder on the hardwood floor.

Kate didn't stop to watch. A quick deep breath—this was going to hurt, her legs were still tied to the chair—she threw herself to the right, toward a pistol on the end-table she knew was loaded with consecrated bullets. The chair creaked as she landed hard on the wood floor, dragging herself the last ten inches to the table. She was pretty sure silver wouldn't stop the thing, but maybe it'd at least slow it down.

God, she _hoped_.

She barely had time to whirl about and fire—a spot of red bloomed dead center in the middle of Liv's chest—before the demon tackled her. Kate cried out as the chair splintered into several pieces, one of which embedded itself deeply in her thigh. Her head smacked the floor hard enough to make her see stars again, and Phoebe scored a punch of her own against Kate's jaw.

Kate lay, stunned, while the demon straddled her, assessing the damage done to Liv's body with distaste.

"Shame," she muttered flippantly while Kate blinked hard below her. "I liked this suit. But it's no matter—I wasn't going to be wearing it long anyway." Phoebe looked back at the woman beginning to struggle again. "Ah, there you are, dear. Welcome back." She took Kate's jaw in her hand roughly, forcing her to look her in the eye. "As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, let me tell you what I'm going to do."

Kate thrust her hips up, throwing the demon straddling her forward and off balance. Phoebe slammed one hand down beside Kate's head to prevent her falling forward completely. It was only a second's worth of a chance, but Kate pressed her advantage, bringing her knees up in an attempt to get them between her and Phoebe to kick the demon off.

It was a clumsy attempt, her legs tangled in the ropes and the remains of the chair; and the demon was impossibly fast. Before she could manage to throw her off, Liv slammed her weight back down on Kate's belly and slapped her in the face.

"Stop. Interrupting. Me."

Kate growled. "Stop. Hitting. Me."

Phoebe's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to possess you. I'm going to get inside that pretty little head of yours, take control, and then I'm going to take you straight back to your brothers. I'll know everything you know, so they won't suspect a thing; and then I'm going to get you all in one room together, and oh no—" Phoebe adopted a sniveling, high voice. "Sweet little Katie is going to hold the entire family at gunpoint until my boss gets there and collects the set."

_No. No no no no…_

Kate somehow found it in her to scoff. "You really think that, do you? So you're ignorant as well as delusional; good to know—"

The demon didn't give her a chance to finish before black smoke poured from Liv's open mouth and into Kate's. She screamed, unable to shut her jaw to block the demon entrance.

Fire scorched her windpipe, her nerve endings sparking with agony and heart beating a wild tattoo in her chest. Kate tried to hold on, but it was difficult to tell what was real and was wasn't in the midst of the agony in her head and chest.

_Dean…Sammy…help…._

* * *

"We could stay?" Dean offered as Sam stared out the rear view at the pretty preacher's daughter. He knew his little brother had connected with the girl, and it was the first time since Jessica's death that Sam had seemed something like his old self; Dean wanted to prolong that as much as possible.

Besides, what was coming once they left made him curl his lip in disgust.

"Kate doesn't need us right away," he continued, hoping to stave off the _research_ as long as he could. "She and Liv are on top of things."

But Sammy wasn't having it; Dean figured he wouldn't, not with a possible answer to the ever-present question _what is Dad doing? _looming. "No," his little brother murmured, shaking his head. "Let's go."

Dean swallowed his sigh and eased Baby out of the driveway. Off to Liv's then; the huntress had answered Katie's phone when he called last night. Apparently the two were up to their eyeballs in books and parchments and god-knows-what-else on demons. Liv had laughed when she heard he and Sam were working a case in a church, told him to be careful and come to her place when they were finished.

"Kate is having the time of her life," Liv had said. "But we could use your help, once you've cleaned up there."

Well, they had cleaned up in Ankeny, and Dean had done everything he could to loiter as much as possible, but here they were, cruising down the road in his Baby with the windows down and the music up.

Despite the _research—_ugh—waiting for them, Dean couldn't help but feel that familiar sense of rightness, what with Sam beside him, Katie nearby (_ish_), and his Baby purring beneath his feet. He supposed it didn't hurt that they'd just managed to save that poor girl's life—as well as her dad's—and he'd found a goddamned _treasure_ in his duffel yesterday.

_Dean,_

_I know you don't want to talk about it, but I have something to say, so you have to listen. Big Brother rules._

She always started like that, taking the responsibility for the impending chick-flick moment and absolving him of all accountability for any emotional nonsense that may take place while he followed "Big Brother rules."

_I don't hate you._

He knew.

_I know you know. But the shifter said it, and I'm un-saying it. I never hated you. I never wanted to leave you. I never considered suicide by the gun you gave me. Ever._

But she _had_ considered it.

_I did consider it, at one time. I'm not going to apologize—it had nothing whatsoever to do with you, was not your fault, and I know for a fact you've considered it too. So has Dad, and probably Sammy—maybe even recently. We've all been there. _

Didn't make it hurt any less.

_I will tell you this: it was you, not Dad, not Sam, not the job, not the world or my education or my few friends, that kept me from going there. You, Dean. You, who always have my back, stitch me up after bad hunts, let me pick the music (sometimes), make me eat when I'm not hungry (but actually am), get a laugh out of me when the rest of the world is falling to pieces. _

Those weren't tears. It was smoke stinging his eyes.

_So that shifter can rot in Hell for spitting such poisonous lies; I am not suicidal, and the brief time I was, it wasn't because of you. You saved my life. _

_I love you, Dumbass._

_Kate_

Kate and her stupid letters. He was going to hug her stupid self the minute he saw her, murmur into her stupid curls how much he loved her.

She wouldn't call him on it, he knew. She never did.

And hours later, when they pulled into Liv's driveway, he nudged Sammy awake with a grin and the intent to do just that. The sun was setting over the forested horizon, the golden light filtering through the trees and dappling the earth. Liv's cabin stood before them, innocuous enough; though Dean knew wards and salted earth made the place extremely difficult for the bad guys to come near.

_Safehouse, indeed._

"Come on, Sammy. The books await."

Sam grinned and elbowed him as they walked to the front door. "Bet you can't _wait_, can you?"

"Shut up."

Sam laughed and knocked on the door—twice, pause, then three times—but no one answered. Dean's instinct tingled, but Sam just cocked an eyebrow and knocked again.

"Liv? Kate?" he called. Dean moved to the side and peeked through one of the cracked-open windows.

_Oh god._

"Sam!" he hissed, and his brother went into Hunter Mode so fast it would've made his head spin if he'd had time to think about it. Sam picked the lock in less than ten seconds—ten interminably _long_ seconds—and Dean slipped inside, shotgun at the ready. Sam was right behind him.

His heart sank when he saw for sure what he'd _thought_ he'd seen through the window.

Liv lay on the rag rug in the front room in a puddle of scarlet blood, brown eyes wide and staring. First glance said the single shot to her chest was the culprit, but Dean knelt to check for a pulse just in case.

_Nothing._

"Dean?" Sam whispered, standing guard, but obviously shaken. Liv had been part of their lives since he was only ten—just a kid—and Dean knew he had bonded with her over their shared crazy intellects. Hell, he could feel grief roiling at the edges of his own soul, trying to swamp him; but he held it back with a will borne of years of practice.

This wasn't the first time he'd lost a friend. Besides, Liv hadn't been alone, and there was really only one name crashing through Dean's skull on a loop.

_Katie._

"Sorry, Sam," he murmured as he stood. "Kate!" he bellowed.

_Please let her be alive, please not Kate, please…_

A small sound from the back of the cabin caught his attention, and he motioned to Sam, who took position a step behind him and to the left.

The cleared the small house with military precision, finally stopping at the back door. A stifled sob caught Dean's attention outside, one he thought he recognized; but he wasn't about to let his guard down, not here, not now. Nodding once to Sam, his little brother yanked the door open and Dean swept his shotgun, looking for targets as he stepped outside.

He froze when he saw her, bent over the porch banister and spitting up bile into the bushes. She straightened—or tried to—when she saw him, whirling so fast she nearly ended up on her ass, face ashen.

"Dean," she sobbed. "Help me."

_Kate._

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading!** Don't forget to leave a quick review or PM; your feedback is like catnip! Special thanks to my Girls for their help proofing and Nova's notes on clearing a room, military-style!

Cheers!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

* * *

_Phoebe forced Kate's face into a grin as she stretched, working herself into her new suit slowly. The woman's spirit was quiet for now, rendered unconscious by the trauma of Phoebe's violent occupation of her body, so the demon took the opportunity to try things out; all limbs and extremities working properly, a couple of injuries she healed shoddily, and a quick suppression of Kate's last resounding thought—"Dad!"—and Phoebe decided she was quite comfortable._

_Standing, Phoebe looked down at the shell of her former suit—Olivia, the woman's name had been—bleeding out on her own living room rug. She smiled; she'd be sure Kate understood that it had been her own bullet that murdered her friend. The huntress had, until Kate shot her, been alive—trapped in her own head, but still kicking and screaming in the prison Phoebe had created for her._

_Kate would react quite deliciously to that particular bit of—_

_Phoebe gasped as a flash of pain jolted through her. Kate's body went to her knees as Phoebe lost control of it momentarily, and the demon cursed filthily._

_What in all of creation had _that_ been?_

_Phoebe felt Kate's spirit stirring in the distant corner of her mind that she'd stuffed the Winchester girl into; and with her growing consciousness, the pain struck again, sharp and biting, burning. The demon felt a stab of confusion at the realization; she'd never experienced anything like this while possessing a body before—what was happening?_

Hello?_ Kate's voice boomed out in her mind, entirely too strong for Phoebe's comfort, though confused. _Who is…what the hell?

_"Shut up!" Phoebe screeched, bringing her power to bear on the girl's spirit, which was beginning to glow…_

What are you doing in-oh, hell no,_ Kate's consciousness rose from her spot and began to walk toward Phoebe, brushing aside the shackles and bars that should have kept her locked away in the deepest recesses of her own head so the demon could maintain charge. _No, you are not getting control of this body.

_"You can't stop me!" Phoebe cackled; but even as she said it, she felt a punch of alarm._

_Her command of Kate's limbs was wavering. She was on her hands and knees, both in Liv's den and inside Kate's head, vision switching confusedly between at the threadbare rug and the white neutral room that was the inside of the huntress's mind. Phoebe gasped, muscles twitching as though receiving conflicting orders at the same time…._

_Kate's rage rolled out from her brightening spirit, burning Phoebe's eyes and lungs. Her physical sight flickered as she lost her grip on the human eyes she'd intended to borrow._

Watch me.

_What was going on? No human could resist possession like this, certainly not a damaged, secretly terrified little wisp of a girl like this one….Phoebe growled. She had possessed stronger people and won without any effort at all, what was so special about—_

_The demon screamed in agonized fury as Kate's spirit surrounded her, taking over her own body by force and burning Phoebe from the inside. She heard Kate's words in her chest, felt them vibrate in her core:_

Get out. And tell your boss to stay the hell away from my family.

_With that, Phoebe lost her grip entirely, howling as she was forcibly expelled from the body of Kate Winchester and dragged back down._

_Down, into the dark heat of that place she despised so very much._

* * *

Kate stood there—well, _'stood'_ was a liberal interpretation, Sam supposed. His sister was leaning heavily against the post supporting the railing nearby. Her skin was gray in the midday light, what of it wasn't shining with scarlet blood, and her hands shook as she gripped the wood in an attempt to remain upright. She was favoring her left leg, and Sam saw the right leg of her jeans was blood-soaked as well. Her eyes met Dean's as he froze, then lowered the shotgun fractionally.

"Dean, help me," she pled, and Sam's heart twisted painfully in his chest.

"Kate, what the hell?" Dean tried to growl, but more concern made its way into his tone than Sam thought he intended. Sam shoved past him, crossing the scant distance between them and Kate in two strides, reaching for her.

But rather than rush forward to hug him like Sam half-expected, his eyes widened when Kate jerked back, falling over her own feet and landing hard on her rear. She huffed in surprise before croaking what he knew to be a stifled moan, and Dean started forward.

"Kate, what—?"

"Don't!" she gasped, scuttling backward clumsily. "Holy water."

"_What?"_

"Holy water," she insisted, weaving where she sat. Sam was already digging in the canvas bag for it. "And don't you drop that shotgun, Dean."

Dean raised an eyebrow both at the order and how much energy it clearly took to give it, but raised the gun again, aiming directly at his sister's chest. Sam cringed, even though he knew why Dean did it: it would be extremely stupid to lower his guard until they knew what exactly was happening—and you never disobeyed an order from someone who knew the situation better than you did.

So his older brother aimed at her, finger resting just above the trigger, and nodded to Sam, who was waiting, poised on his knees with the flask. At his signal, Sam crept forward on his knees, careful to move slowly and smoothly to avoid spooking Kate. He held both hands before him and spoke softly as he approached her, like he was gentling a wounded animal.

"It's okay, Katie, we're here now. We're going to help." She stared straight at him, eyes wide and lips trembling.

_Oh, Katie._

Sam touched her denim-clad knee gently—the non-injured one—and shifted a little closer. His sister held out her bare arm, covered in gooseflesh as she shivered. Sam took her forearm, holding it lightly in one hand while he sprinkled the water onto her skin. As expected, nothing happened except it dripped slowly to the porch below, staining the wood a shade darker. Kate blinked rapidly and a visible tremor worked its way through her body, before she looked back up at Sam, who had scooted even closer when she wasn't paying attention.

"Are you sure it's Holy Water?"

He nodded, running a hand over Kate's head as he began triaging her injuries. She didn't protest this time, just huffed shallow, terrified breaths. Sam felt Dean lower the shotgun for the second time and kneel beside her, begin to look at her bleeding leg while Sam himself drew Kate's chin up to force her to look at him. Her pupils were wide and uneven, the blue irises nearly invisible as she stared forward. She seemed to be having trouble focusing on his face. This close, he could see that her lips were tinged lightly blue.

Oh that was _not_ good.

"Dean," he murmured tightly. "I think she's going into shock."

His brother nodded, tying off the makeshift bandage he had wrapped hard around her thigh. "We need to get her inside," he said, slipping his hands behind her shoulders and under her knees. Dean stood, alert for trouble, as Sam lifted Kate easily against his chest and turned toward the house.

Their sister, so pliant a moment before, jerked so hard against Sam he nearly dropped her. "No!" she cried, tightening her arms around his neck. "No, don't take me in there, don't!"

"Katie," Sam tried to soothe her. "We have to, I gotta get you stitched up and you need to lie down, and we're miles from a hotel—"

"'mpala?" she panted, still panicking but quickly running out of steam. Sam tossed a look at Dean—a request—and Dean nodded. They didn't know what had gone down inside that cabin, but Sam was sure it wasn't good, and he couldn't properly treat Kate if she was panicking.

Leaving Dean to take care of Liv's body and clean up the place before they left it, Sam carried Kate around the cabin to the Impala and deposited her gently on the hood.

"Sit still for a sec," he ordered, then unlocked and opened the rear passenger door, spreading a blanket to avoid getting blood on the leather seats if he could. Grabbing the first aid kit, Sam went back to his sister, who was shivering uncontrollably now, teeth chattering.

"'s cold, Sam," she stuttered, and he gathered her close.

"I know, sweetheart, just hold on. There's a blanket inside the car for you." He set her down and wrapped the extra wool blanket around her shoulders, then stretched her leg out, wincing as she whimpered. "All right, just hold on, I gotta clean this. What happened here, huh? Can you tell me?" The injury was deep, splinters of wood shoved well into the big muscle, and Sam shuddered at the implication of being stabbed by a wood stake.

"Ch'r…broke," Kate slurred, slumped over so far her head was on his shoulder. Sam cringed.

"Yeah, this is going to hurt. Kate, you hear me?"

She nodded a little, and Sam braced her leg between his arm and ribs. He toyed with the idea of calling Dean—she'd just hurt herself worse if she fought him on this—but the sight of her deathly-pale face made Sam think again. Holding tight, he got to work.

It was painstaking, slippery labor; though Kate took it like a champ—Sam wasn't sure if that was because she was the toughest woman he knew, or because she was just too far gone to fight him. By the time he finished cleaning out the deep wounds thoroughly and stitching up the deepest lacerations, Dean had finished with Liv and the cabin. Sam wiped the sweat from his brow as he tied off the bandage.

"How bad?" Dean asked. Kate was slumped over against the back of the seat now, eyes cracked. Sam had tried to keep her awake as best he could while they did this, but she was fading fast now. She licked dry lips and blew out a shuddering breath when Sam let go of her leg, placing it gently inside the car.

"Bad," was all he said to Dean before turning his attention back to her. He cleaned off her face, noting a small cut above a nasty-looking knot on her skull—concussion, likely, though the cut wouldn't need stitches. He shook out his hands and slapped her cheek gently to get her attention. Kate pried open her eyes and successfully focused on his face. Sam couldn't help but smile—that was the first good sign he'd seen since they got here—and stroked her sweaty brow.

"Hey there, Katie."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dean asked, kneeling beside him. Sam wanted to smack him; they needed to go. But he understood why Dean needed to know, and quickly.

Two minutes, he decided. His brother could have two minutes, then he was insisting they get Kate out of here.

"D'mon," she mumbled, muscles seizing in a tiny shiver at the word.

"Did it possess you?" Sam asked, afraid of the answer but already knowing it. His mouth went cottony when Kate nodded.

"But it's not there now," Dean said. "The Holy Water would've told us. What happened?"

"Dunno," Kate's words were slurring worse by the minute. "S'd no."

"Dean," Sam said. "We have to go. I've got to get her horizontal."

Dean simply nodded, to Sam's surprise, and crossed to the other side, slipping into the driver's seat. Sam settled in the back with Kate, laying her back so her feet rested on his knees, and tucked the blanket around her. Ever the affectionate patient, Kate fumbled one hand out from her makeshift cocoon and found his fingers, gripping tight. Sam felt one side of his lips quirk up in a small smile.

"Sulfur all over the damn place inside," Dean was growling from the front as they squealed out of the long driveway onto the blacktop. "Demons were here, or at least one; they obviously got Liv, but…" His brother petered off, jaw clenching.

"But why'd they let Kate go?" Sam murmured his question for him. Kate squeezed his fingers convulsively, shuddering a small sigh.

_God, Katie, what did they do to you?_

* * *

Waking up was such a crap shoot. Sometimes morning called to her, whether summer or winter; there was just something about a brand new day that made her smile. The singing birds, the bright new light, the bracing cool air: it was a little slice of Heaven in a hellish world.

But sometimes….

Pain assaulted her from what seemed like every corner of her physical body. Her head pounded in tandem with her heart, which was over-loud in her sore ears. Every muscle felt strained and her skin prickled, aching against the rough cotton of motel sheets. Kate moaned, but even her throat felt swollen sore, and she coughed weakly.

A hand slipped beneath her head, pulling a few hairs despite the gentleness in the motion, and a glass was pressed against her lips.

"Drink," a raspy voice commanded. Kate obeyed without opening her eyes, the water soothing as it slipped down her throat. Too soon, the glass disappeared. Gasping, Kate forced her eyes open.

She needed _more_.

"Not too much," the voice said again—this time she recognized it as Dean. She blinked furiously to try to bring him into focus.

God, even her _eyeballs_ hurt.

"You're dehydrated," Dean explained when she started to protest hoarsely. "Drink too fast and you'll puke. How do you feel?"

Kate let her head fall back onto the pillow with a moan, closed her eyes again. "Like hammered crap," she croaked.

"Whew, you _sound_ like hammered crap," Dean agreed. She flipped him off, lazily. Her older brother laughed. "Well your ability to insult eloquently is obviously unaffected."

"Katie?" Sam's voice was muffled, sleepy.

"She's awake," Dean announced, and Kate heard sheets rustle nearby.

"She doesn't _look_ awake," Sam countered a moment later, his voice closer this time. She scowled.

"Well I _am_. My eyes hurt. _Everything_ hurts."

"I guess we don't have to ask how she feels," Sam muttered.

"Already did," Dean answered. "She's hurting. And pretty damned grumpy."

"'_She'_ is right here," Kate griped. Sam snorted, and she resisted the urge to pinch him.

_Too much effort._

God, what had died in her mouth? She needed to brush her teeth.

"So. Mind telling me why we arrived to find you hurling over the bannister?" Dean asked. She swallowed her angry retort—she knew she could be an absolute bitch when she was hurting—reminding herself that Dean hadn't _been_ there, hadn't _seen_ what she saw, and had his snark on full blast to cover the fact that he was actually _shaken_.

"Because I had just ousted a demon from my own body," she answered, trying not to be deliberately obtuse. She sighed—she was going to need to sit up and actually _talk_ about this, it wasn't the kind of thing you muttered while trying to go back to sleep—and struggled upright. Hands supported her until she'd scooted herself against the headboard, and she eventually pried her eyes open to face her brothers.

Dean sat near her knees, looking at her intently, every line of his posture screaming vigilance—the mention of demons was more than enough to keep his guard well and truly up. Sam was closer, one leg resting up on the bed as he faced her, his expression equal parts concern and relief. She took a deep breath and told them everything she knew—which, let's face it, was not much more than they.

"It was a demon," she rasped, and Sam tensed beside her. "It took Liv—" Kate's throat closed against the memory of Liv's rich brown eyes flashing depthless black, and she coughed. "I'm not sure when, but definitely before I got there."

"So Dad never called Liv?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Kate said. "The demon said he did, but…demons lie, so."

"How did you get away?" Sam asked, eyes wide.

"I didn't," she answered, unable to prevent the tear that slipped down her cheek. Between the horror of the situation and the physical pain she was in, Kate felt like she was stepping closer to a full-blown breakdown by the moment; she could feel it, panic and despair making her chest ache, her eyes sting. "She knocked me out, tied me up. When I woke I managed to get my wrists loose and go after a gun while she…monologued. All I could get my hands on were consecrated silver bullets. Didn't even slow her down." She choked again at the memory.

Sam made the connection instantly. "Liv?"

Kate shook her head, jaw clenching to hold back the cry of anguish that bloomed in her chest. "I shot her in the chest, Sammy, I—" Kate coughed out a sob, and Sam squeezed her arm. Kate took a minute, swallowing hard before continuing.

"Then the demon, she…she took _me_."

Dean leaned back instinctively. Kate dropped her head, expecting Sammy's solid presence at her side to disappear any second—she felt so dirty, _sullied_; the demon had been the most evil thing she'd ever encountered, and its barbarous, vile thoughts had been blatantly visible to Kate while she fought it inside her own head.

That…._thing_ had been inside her, _part of her_, and now her brothers knew it. She almost hoped they drew away—they shouldn't be too close to her, to the disgusting echoes of the monster that had been in her head. But instead she felt Sam's weight disappear—and then felt the mattress dip as he moved to sit beside her, leaning against the headboard and slinging an arm around her shoulder. Kate gasped in surprise and…_fear?..._jerking away.

"Don't," she choked. "Stay away."

"Katie—" Sam beseeched, reaching for her. She shook her head as her stomach rebelled the sudden movement. Wincing, she crossed arms over her middle in a vain attempt to calm the spasms that racked her torso and the accompanying nausea that threatened to bring up the water she had just drunk.

"No you don't, Kate, come on now," Dean was close, and then she was pushed back, into Sam's warm side. He folded her close; and she was too tired, too scared, too sick to protest. She shivered, clenching her jaw against the overwhelming urge to cry, breathing deep to get control

After she calmed a little, Sam spoke up, his voice gentler than she felt she deserved. "But we tested you; you're clean. How did you get free of it?"

She sat up again, regretting the action as pain shot through her skull. "I don't know," she confessed. "I just…fought it. The demon. It was trying to take over my body and I just…said no."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "You 'just said no', and it…_left_?"

Kate coughed a laugh. "More like I said no and it was expelled forcibly, kicking and screaming." She groaned. "And I've been deathly sick ever since."

Sam and Dean were silent for a few minutes—minutes that dragged on to feel like hours to Kate—and she shifted against Sam, hoping beyond hope that even though she deserved it, they wouldn't turn her out completely. Could a person recover after being possessed? She'd never heard of anyone surviving a possession, rejecting a possession…maybe she'd be okay?

But maybe not.

She had no idea, and the only thing scarier than the thought that she might not be entirely…herself…was the idea of having to find out alone.

"Go back to sleep, Katie," Dean's voice cut into her budding panic. "We'll take a few days here, you need to heal."

"Will I?" The question was out before she quite registered asking it. She looked up at her older brother, feeling their difference in age more keenly than usual. She needed him to have the answer, even as she knew he probably didn't.

But Dean gave her an encouraging smile. "You sure will. Just a few days in bed and some good food, you'll be right as rain."

She knew he didn't know it for sure, but she latched onto his apparent confidence anyway, trying to make it her own. She nodded, and Sammy moved so she could lie down again. The boys made to disperse.

"Guys?"

They looked down at her.

"Thanks."

Sammy gave her a half smile, and Dean patted her thigh. "Go to sleep, Kate."

* * *

"I sent you to do _one thing_," Azazel snarled. "One job, Phoebe. Possess the Winchester girl, that was all. How hard could it have been?"

The demon stood shaking, fear and rage battling for domination in her chest. Oh, she was in trouble.

"I _did_ possess her," she answered, almost pleading. Phoebe was not above begging if it meant less of a punishment when all was said and done. "She kicked me out."

Azazel laughed, a chilling sound that was more threat than actual amusement. "She kicked you out? No human can resist possession, youngling. You've been a demon long enough to know that." His yellow eyes glowed with the promise of excruciating punishment, and Phoebe's heart dropped into her stomach. "Next time you want a lie to cover for your incompetency, at least come up with a plausible one, yes?"

"It's not a lie!" Phoebe screamed as two of Azazel's minions grabbed her, dragging her backward toward the door.

Toward the chamber.

Toward…_Him_.

"No, please! I'm not lying! She burned me, pushed me out; I don't know how!"

Azazel held up a hand, and the others stopped pulling Phoebe away. "Burned you?" he asked softly, as if that mattered.

Phoebe nodded desperately. "Not like Hellfire, though, it was…different. I can't really describe it."

"What else?" her boss asked, turning back fully to face her. Phoebe blinked, trying to recall the details.

"Her mind; we were in a whitish room the moment she woke, rather than a…a forest or an old house or whatever. It was almost as if she…_directed_ the encounter. Bright and burning, that's all I really remember." Phoebe shuddered—it had been more painful than most of her experiences in Hell, if she was honest.

Which she wasn't, usually.

Azazel appeared thoughtful. "This is most interesting. Disturbing, really…" he fingered his chin. "Still, you were too weak to defeat a mere human, Phoebe. I cannot have such…_ineptitude_…among my ranks. Take her away.

Phoebe shrieked as the door opened. "No, please, not…..no!"

She was thrown into a dark, cold room moments later. She could see nothing, feel only the chill in the blackness, but she could hear….

"Why Phoebe, you're back. So good to see you. I can't wait to pick up where we last left off." The Voice was smooth, soft, cloying.

Phoebe _screamed_.

* * *

**A/N: There it is**, the next chapter! Thanks to all of you who reviewed and followed! Don't forget to leave a note if you liked it-and if you didn't! Your feedback makes me better!

Cheers!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 **

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

* * *

"Dean? Earth to Deeeeaaannn," Kate waved her hand in front of Dean's face with a small smile. He snapped back to attention, his surroundings coming back into focus—the waitress setting down his food in front of him, the diner, the low hum of the lights, the jukebox playing quietly in the corner. It was late, close to closing time; but he'd been absolutely ravenous when they got their room for the night and announced he was going out for food. Sam had waved him off, already half-asleep, but Kate had tagged along, 'for company,' she'd said.

He suspected she was just glad to be back on her feet, had had enough of motel rooms for the last ten days she'd been recovering from the aborted demon possession.

Which still freaked Dean out, if he thought about it hard enough. So he tried not to.

"Sorry," he apologized, flashing a smile at the middle-aged brunette who'd brought his burger and fries. She gave him a warm grin and walked back to the kitchen, looking over her shoulder at him furtively. Dean let his smile widen before turning back to Kate, who was nursing her hot coffee and smirking at him.

"What?" he asked, only a little defensive.

She just laughed. "Nothing. Just marveling at the power of whatever charm it is you possess."

Dean's grin turned wicked. "I'm just that sexy."

"Yeah, whatever."

"You asked."

"No, I didn't. I was simply making an observation."

Dean laughed. "You're obviously not hungry," he motioned to her mug. "So why exactly did you come along?"

Kate shrugged. "Not sleepy, and I wanted some time with my big brother." Then she curled her fingers around the hot mug and pulled it to her lips, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "_freakin' sick of being inside."_

Dean hid a smile behind a bite of delicious burger goodness. "Uh huh," Dean answered, noting his sister's gaze shift to the window quickly, as if she saw something. She blinked, then looked back to him, shaking her head a little. "Something on your mind, Katie?"

"Who said—?"

"There's something bothering you, I can tell. Now out with it."

Kate sighed. "You and your damned intuition." She fidgeted with her spoon for a moment. "It's a bit of everything, honestly." She rolled her eyes. "When isn't it?"

Dean nodded—boy, did he ever understand that sentiment—and waited for her to elaborate. Much more willing to talk than _he_ usually was, Kate didn't keep him waiting long.

"The demon thing was terrifying, and my own reaction to it scared me," she confessed, quietly, not looking at him. "And since, I've been…_unbelievably_ jumpy. Even now that I'm feeling better, I keep imagining things, seeing something out of the corner of my eye. And the nightmares…" she petered off, letting out a shaky breath, and Dean clenched his jaw to keep the emotion off his face. Her night terrors had kept him up for the last five nights; soothing, stroking her hair, murmuring nonsense until she fell into a fitful sleep again. He knew she knew it, and knew he was about to get called on it; couldn't let her see how much her agony killed him.

Between her nightmares and Sammy's, he was probably never going to get a full night's sleep again. Not for a while, anyhow.

Kate met his eyes, and he schooled his face carefully.

"I know you know," she said evenly. "You've woken me from every single one, stayed til I fell asleep again." Dean sighed—unlike Sammy, Kate never did get that you just didn't _talk_ about stuff like that. Over the years, he'd learned when to put her off and when she would refuse to be mollified.

Tonight was one of the latter.

"You need rest," she said. "I'm going to get a room of my own for a few nights so you can sleep."

"No."

"Dean—"

"_No_, Kate. If you think I'll sleep any better with you alone in another room, you're dumber than you look."

Her nostrils flared—_irritation_, Dean bit back a sigh. His younger siblings just did not _get_ it, what it was like to have _take care of Sammy and Kate_ screaming through his head on repeat all hours of the day, what it meant, how it hurt him to be away from either of them, the near-panic he was fighting twenty-four-seven these days because he could tell something was not right—with _either_ of them—and he had no inkling of how to _fix_ it.

"Fine," she gritted her teeth. "Then let me take the Xanax."

"Kate—"

"Dean, you're going to run yourself into the ground doing this. You need sleep."

"And you need someone to help when you wake up screaming. Sam is fighting his own battles right now, and besides, it's my _job_." Dean's glare was surprisingly harsh for his words, but he wasn't going to do this with her right now. To his surprise, she didn't snap. Instead, her face softened, and he wondered if maybe he'd just won this one.

"The Xanax will keep me asleep."

Apparently not.

"You know what happened last time we tried that. We're not going there again, Kate."

A doctor had prescribed the alprazolam to Kate after the first demon fiasco, when she was sixteen. They'd had to lie, say she'd been assaulted (okay, not _entirely_ a lie), to explain the night terrors that time; and the doctor had warned them of the side effects. Desperate to get some real sleep, Kate had agreed to the pills even though she—like all of them—_despised_ medication.

The next hunt, Dad had nearly been killed because Kate couldn't react quickly enough to the raging black dog. The meds had also sent her into a dark spiral of depression from which Dean had had no luck pulling her. It had taken _months_ to get her back to normal, and several knock-down, drag-out fights when he first took the pills away—fights severe enough they were _still_ dealing with the fallout.

"I was young and stupid," she reasoned, very nearly pleading with him.

"Kate—"

"—I know better now."

"I'm _not_ giving you the damn pills!" he hissed. "You can forget it!"

His sister slammed her hand on the table and stood. "Then I'm getting a room. Try and stop me, Dean, I'm a grown-ass woman."

"Kate, come on—"

But she was gone, out the door already, slamming it in her wake. Dean sighed, rubbing at his brow in an attempt to ease the headache growing behind his eyes.

_God damn it._

* * *

Furiously, Kate stalked away from the small diner, headed for their hotel barely a block away. She supposed she should have been pleased.

She wasn't.

That conversation had gone as she feared, but not as she'd hoped. She remembered as well as Dean did what Xanax had done to her as a teenager: remembered the bleak hopelessness she couldn't seem to shake, the loopiness, the slower reflexes almost getting her father killed. Remembered John's barely-concealed disappointment in her training, in her abilities as she lost what edge she'd gained via years of training and a few months as a huntress. She remembered looking in the mirror and not really knowing the lethargic, dull face looking back at her; hadn't forgotten how tired she always was and how colorless, gray the world had seemed. Combined with the lifestyle they had, apathy had quickly become despondency.

At the same time, she hadn't been able to sleep at all without the pills. It was remarkable, to her, how quickly it had happened; one day it was nightmares and trouble sleeping, three days later she'd forgotten to take one at bedtime and been up all night. Xanax had been an unkind master, between the dependence and the depression; and while John just pushed harder when he was around, trying to snap her out of her "funk", Dean had known exactly what was going on. Neither of them ever said the word, neither of them ever would, but she knew as well as he did what she was:

_An addict._

It wasn't an experience she was eager to repeat, but she also thought that perhaps the fixation had been a personality flaw, maybe she was strong enough now to beat it.

She was getting desperate for sleep. Real, deep, dreamless sleep. And she knew Dean was too.

Back when Xanax had been an issue, they had tried several different meds to get her what she needed—none of them worked. Somehow her body simply didn't respond to any but the one drug that would ensnare her and not let go.

_Figures_.

An extra room had been the perfect answer from the get-go, in her mind; but she'd known that convincing Dean of it would be hellish. So she'd presented him with the two options she saw: meds or another room.

Of course, Dean freakin' Winchester, stubborn bastard that he was, didn't want to accept either one. So she chose for him. It was her right, she was her own person as much as she was their sister, and she was using her own money for the room; so he really couldn't do anything.

This she repeated to herself despite the pit in her stomach—she _hated_ fighting with her brothers—all the way to the tiny dingy lobby of their motel. She nodded a greeting to the tired-looking old man behind the counter.

"I need a room, please."

"How many nights?"

"Three, please." That should give Dean enough time to acclimate and get a couple nights of decent sleep.

"Forty a night," the man intoned, pecking something into his computer and reaching for a key behind the desk. Kate laid down six twenties and sighed, signing the paper the man pushed in front of her.

He handed her the key, and mumbled, "Room 105, left corner of the courtyard."

She gave him an ironic salute and left.

She fumed a bit more on the way to Room 105, but her thoughts were interrupted by a flash of blue out of the corner of her right eye. Her head jerked to that side instinctively, but whatever it had been was gone. She froze, every muscle taut as she drew the hunting knife at her waist, intensely aware of the hairs on her skin standing straight up.

She was being watched.

After sixty seconds of complete stillness, the feeling hadn't abated, but Kate's other senses—touch, scent, sight, hearing—told her she was all alone in the parking lot of motel in rural Indiana. Dean would be back from the diner soon; it'd be better if he didn't catch her outside, jumping at shadows. She tucked the knife into its sheath and opened her door.

The room was dark and quiet, cold. The emptiness was almost palpable, and Kate clenched her jaw against the sense of melancholy that assaulted her; she was, as she'd so eloquently told Dean, a grown-ass woman, and could handle a few nights on her own.

She didn't bother going to Dean and Sam's room to get her bag, she wasn't interested in fighting anymore tonight. Instead, she locked the door, loped over to the bed furthest from the door—some habits die hard—and flopped down face first, grateful that she was nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion.

Sleep overtook her fast and hard, and she slipped into dreams more violent than her reality.

* * *

_He breathed a sigh of frustration as the woman slipped into unconsciousness, lying on her belly in the substandard bed, alone in the room she had not taken precautions to ward against enemies. Her brother was worrying at the other side of the compound, and rightly so, because Katharine's dreams were degenerating into night terrors at a record pace._

_His superiors did not like it when their premiere weapon—their untrained weapon, as of yet—was alone and unprotected. He glared at the prone form of the foolish girl, so young and far too reckless for his taste, completely unaware of his presence at her side._

_Though he'd had to scramble to keep himself hidden several times in the last few days, and he was wondering if the attempted possession had triggered something in the woman. It was difficult to tell, since she was the only one of her kind in all of history._

_In truth, no one really knew what to expect of her._

_But his orders had been clear; observe, protect, but never interfere unless there was no other choice. Too much was at stake._

_Without hesitation, he reached down and touched her forehead gently. Satisfied, he departed moments later._

_Duty waited for no one, after all._

* * *

Kate was slammed back into reality on the tail end of a choked scream. White spots danced before her eyes in the darkness; her skin was covered in a cold sweat and she was sucking air into her heaving chest in uneven gasps, pathetic little whimpers sounding with each shallow exhale. It was getting harder to breathe by the second, blood and fire still dancing across her bleary vision. She tried to get up and found she couldn't, her legs restrained by…_something_? Something thin but strong…

She didn't care, she needed to _move_. Scrabbling at her legs, she realized it was the bedsheets she was tangled in. The realization did nothing to calm the rising panic in her chest. She was having trouble getting air out of her lungs as Phoebe appeared in the corner of the room—Phoebe as she'd seen her in her mind, all rancid flesh and dark blood and deformed features, further twisted in the moonlight that shone through her window.

"Aw, look, little Katie Winchester is having a nightmare. You forgot to salt the doors and windows, child."

Kate tried to take more air in, but her lungs were full to bursting and she couldn't calm enough to exhale…_Oh god, I'm going to suffocate._

Losing what was left of her composure, Kate fell back against the end table and bit her lip til it bled to keep from screaming as Phoebe moved closer, blood dripping from the demon's fingertips, rotted fingers reaching for her.

Miraculously, one of her legs came free from the knotted cotton sheets, and Kate lurched forward, barely managing to pull her still-booted left foot loose from the mess to catch her before she fell and smacked her head on the windowsill. Blindly, Kate wrenched open the door and fell over the threshold, the cold night air dispersing what was left of her nightmare.

There was no fire.

No blood.

No restraints.

No Phoebe.

_In, out, in, out, come on Kate,_ she coached herself. Her breathing was evening out, but her heart still beat a wild tattoo in her chest, thumping painfully against her ribs as if it was trying to escape her entirely—that dream had been the most intense yet, so real she'd been able to feel the burning heat of the flames against her skin. So very convincing, she found herself checking her arms, half-expecting to find blackened, charred limbs.

_What _was_ that?_

It didn't matter, she needed to get away. To run. To _move_.

Kate stumbled to her feet and began to run. She didn't pay attention to where, every muscle in her body was screaming for action.

_Don't stop._

_Escape._

When next she was aware of herself, Kate was standing in front of Sam and Dean's door, her hand raised as if to knock. She blinked hard and stopped.

_What?_

Bone-deep terror warred with the realization that she hadn't even made it one full night without running to her big brother for help.

One measly _night_.

She hesitated, her pride bellowing at her not to knock. A flash at the corner of her eye, and when she turned, Phoebe stood there again.

_Not real._

It didn't matter.

She banged on the door with her fist. "_Dean_! Open up, Dean, let me _in_!" The ugly green door swung inward, and Kate careened over the salt line and collided with a solid, flannel-clad chest. He let out a little 'oof!' of surprise as she latched onto the cotton with a sob. She heard the door slam, and warm arms folded around her tightly.

"Katie, are you all right?" Dean's voice rumbled in her ear, and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't…I just wanted you to _sleep_," she rambled, shuddering as the warmth of the room made its way into her bones.

"Hush," Dean murmured, and she felt him kiss the crown of her head—something he would never do in daylight. Kate clenched her jaw to the point of pain to hold back the tears that stung her eyes. "It's all right, Kate, its fine. I've got you."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks again** for reading! Don't forget to leave a review or PM if you're so inclined-feedback is an author's best friend! Special thanks to my partners in crime for their assistance and encouragement!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 **

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

* * *

Dean was pulled from a fitful sleep by the rustling of blankets across the room. Sleepily, he peeked over the edge of the cheap couch in the cheap hotel room, unsurprised to see Sam had tangled himself in the covers with his flailing about. In the low light, Dean could see the kid's face was shining with a sheen of sweat, and Sam tossed his head, muttering to himself.

"No…get her…_no_…"

Dean sighed. If Sam didn't sit down and tell him what was going on with him soon, Dean was going to beat it out of him, he swore. The kid was—

The threat hadn't finished forming fully in his sluggish mind when a small gasp from the other bed got his attention.

_Seriously?_

Dean focused blearily on Kate, who had wakened quietly and was sitting bolt upright in her bed, breathing deliberately slowly. So another nightmare for her, too, apparently. The first in a few days, he noted with a small amount of satisfaction.

She was getting better.

"Kate?" he resigned himself to getting up, specifically if she needed some half-conscious, post-nightmare coddling. While Dean would never admit it, it was a part of his job as the big brother that he never really minded.

"'M fine." She responded, but her voice came out all wrong—hoarse and shaking—and Dean rolled off the couch to approach her. Her wide eyes took him in and she winced before she could stop herself. Dean slowed, reached for her. She let him smooth her hair back for a moment, then swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"What time is it?"

Dean looked at his watch. "Nearly five."

"Think I'm going to go for a walk." Kate stood, pulling on her hoodie. "Help clear my head."

Dean nodded. "Need company?"

"No, you should get some more sleep. You were still up when I went to bed at one, Dean; you need to get some rest."

He made a face—she was still on about that, even though he was getting a solid four hours a night now. _Most nights_. "Yeah, yeah. You okay?"

She nodded, opening the door and breathing in deep, closing her eyes as she obviously relished the cool pre-dawn air on her face. Dean fought a smile at her unabashed delight. "I'll be back in a little while."

She shut the door quietly behind her, and Dean breathed a sigh. He was suddenly very tired—Sam had quieted at last and Kate was up, so he flopped back onto the small couch. Folded his legs up, rubbed his face into the borrowed pillow, huffed as he settled.

Slept.

It was barely an hour later when he heard Sam stir—the slow, waking sort of stirring this time—and sit up with a small groan. Dean popped upright, noting in one glance that Kate wasn't back, and taking in Sam's extraordinary case of bedhead.

"Dude," he croaked. "You're gonna start attracting rats with that nest on your head."

Sam, ever the eloquent one, said, "wha—?"

"Intelligent," Dean quipped. "You need the john first? I'll start looking for a case for us."

"'Kay."

When a full minute had passed—Dean had laced up his boots and opened the laptop already—and Sam was still sitting on his bed, staring and incoherent, the elder Winchester shook his head. It was incredible, really, how a man who'd be fully alert and deadly in less than a second under different circumstances could, in the absence of a threat, be so…dim.

"Sam!" he all but shouted, and his brother jumped, eyes wide. Dean had to cough to force back the laugh that choked him. "Sometime today, man?"

"Yeah…'m up…" Sam stumbled out of the bed and toward the bathroom. Dean snorted and went back to the laptop.

Twenty minutes later, his much-more-human little brother emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wearing only a towel slung round his waist.

"Forgot clothes," Sam muttered sheepishly, when Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. As if it didn't happen almost every day, because Sam basically always woke up slow and stupid.

_Dork_.

But when Sam sat back on his bed after dressing, picked up a pad and proceeded to start doodling, ignoring all Dean's attempts at conversation—and later, shameless insults designed to provoke a response—for the next half hour, he began to think maybe something was up.

"And, here, a Sacramento man shot himself in the head. Three times." Dean waved his hand in front of Sam's face, a little miffed that he couldn't seem to focus on helping find their next case. "Any of this blowing up your skirt, pal?"

Dean looked up as Kate walked in, cheeks a healthy pink from the cool morning air. She was toting coffees and a bag full of greasy breakfast goodness, and flashed him a smile he barely managed to return.

"Good morning, boys," she announced. Sam grunted in response, and Dean sniffed. "What'd you get?" he asked, taking the proffered coffee from his sister's hand.

"Wait," Sam muttered from the bed. "I've seen this before."

"Seen what?" Dean asked. Sam didn't answer, just got up and started rummaging through his duffel bag. Kate walked over to him, curiosity written all over her face. "What are you doing?" Dean stood.

Sam seemed to have located what he was looking for—a photo? He held it in his left hand, the doodle in his right, and both younger Winchesters bent their heads to study them. Dean nearly smiled at the sudden flash of memory—of a younger Kate helping a younger Sam with Algebra homework, huddled over a hotel room table just like that—until Kate gasped.

"Oh my god."

"What?" Dean asked, walking toward them, determined to figure out what was going on here. Sam turned back to him before he got there.

"Dean, I know where we have to go."

"Where?"

"Back home. Back to Kansas."

Dean blinked, swallowing at the way his heart thumped painfully at the idea. Forcing his voice to remain steady, he pasted a nonchalant look on his face. "Okay, random," he answered, gaze flicking to Kate, who looked stunned. "Where did this come from?"

"How did you…" Kate had found her voice, evidently. Sorta. "Sam, why did you draw this tree?"

Sam looked uncomfortable. "Okay, look, this is gonna sound crazy but….the people who live in our old house—I think they might be in danger."

Dean cocked his head. "Why would you think that?"

"It's just, um….look, just trust me on this, okay?" Sam turned and started stuffing things in his duffel. Kate shook her head, looking back to Dean with something akin to shock. Dean understood how she felt. "Wait…whoa, whoa…just, 'trust you'? That's all you got?"

Sam glanced up, his expression guarded. "I can't really explain it, is all."

Dean sat down, and Kate followed his lead, planting themselves on the other bed and facing their youngest brother. "Well, tough. We're not going anywhere until you do." Sam stopped packing, turned to face his siblings. A dozen emotions flashed over his face, the prominent one being stubbornness.

Kate evidently saw it too, because she reached out, taking Sam's hand and guiding him to sit across from them. "Come on, Sammy," she said softly. "We need to know. It'll be okay, just tell us what's going on with you."

Sam paused, and Dean held his breath. He knew a confession was coming, knew that look on the kid's face.

It was almost a relief. He was sick of wondering and worrying himself crazy over this.

"I have these nightmares," Sam began, haltingly. Dean nodded.

"We've noticed."

Sam swallowed. "And sometimes….they come true."

_Um…what?_

"Come again?" Kate sounded confused, and Dean couldn't blame her. He was pretty sure this was not what he'd expected to hear from his baby brother, in the way of a confession.

Though he could see why it would cause the kid considerable confusion and guilt.

"Look," Sam hesitated, as if pushing forward with this was physically painful. "….I dreamt about Jessica's death…for _days_ before it happened."

_Guilt. Called it._

Dean found himself searching frantically for an explanation. "Sam, people have weird dreams, man," he hastened to reassure his brother. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

Sammy shook his head. "No, you don't get it." He looked up, and Dean felt his chest constrict at the weight he saw in the kid's eyes. "I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, everything; and I didn't do anything about it 'cause I didn't believe it." Sam huffed a half-laugh, half-sigh. "And now I'm dreaming about that tree, about our house, and about some woman inside screaming for help. I mean, that's where it all started, man, this has to mean something, right?"

"I don't know," Dean heard himself say. He could barely absorb all this.

"Sam—"Kate piped up, but his youngest brother wasn't listening, looking desperately to Dean for answers. It was that same look he'd worn every time he asked what Dad really did for a living, when they were kids.

"What do you mean you don't _know_, Dean?" he pled. "This woman might be in danger. I mean, this might even be the thing that killed Mom and Jessica!"

Dean's head was spinning. "All right, just slow down, would you?" He stood, unable to stop himself pacing.

"Sam, did this ever happen before Jess?" Kate asked quietly. Sam shook his head. "But that doesn't matter now," he insisted. "We have to go back to our old house now. This woman…we can save her!"

Dean shook his head. "Come on, man, give me a minute. I mean, first you tell me that you've got the Shining? And then you tell me that I've gotta go back home? Especially when…." He stifled a shiver.

Sam softened, finally picking up on Dean's discomfort. "When what?"

"When I swore to myself that I would never go back there," he answered, softly.

"You don't have to," Kate answered, standing and placing a warm hand on his shoulder. He looked up, meeting soft blue eyes.

"What?"

"We'll go," Sam answered, standing too as he picked up on what their sister was getting at. "Kate's right. You don't have to go through this. We'll go check it out. Just to make sure. It'll take a couple days, tops, and then we'll keep looking for dad, okay?"

Dean considered for a moment, but then shook his head abruptly. "No. _No_."

"What?" Kate asked. "Dean, you don't have to—"

"Of course I do," he answered wearily. "If this is the thing that got Mom and Jessica? Or something equally horrific? I can't sit back and leave you two to deal with it alone just because I'm…" _damaged_, he almost said, but couldn't bring himself to say the word.

"We'll be fine," Kate assured. "There's no need to put yourself through this."

Dean shook his head. "No. I'm coming with you."

He knew it was the right decision when Sam couldn't hide his relief at the declaration.

His siblings needed him on this one, and he'd be damned if he was going to fail them. Not this time.

* * *

**48 Hours Later**

"I've got Jenny, you two get the kids!" Dean shouted over the roar of the poltergeist that was currently turning the house into a warzone. Kate pushed Sam forward just as a lamp whizzed by where his head had been mere moments before. Dean cocked a brow at both of them, a silent warning to _be careful, dammit_, and then he turned and ran up the stairs.

Kate took a deep breath and followed. "You get the girl!" she shouted over her shoulder, knowing Sam would comply, and thundered down the hall behind Dean. Her older brother pounded on the door to the master bedroom, shouting for the young mother, and Kate didn't even pause, heading for the smaller room across the hall—the old nursery.

She burst in gracelessly, heart thumping painfully when she saw the tiny bed was empty.

"Ritchie!" she screamed, and the tiny boy's tousled head appeared from beside the dresser nearby. He whimpered, and she scooped him up gently; cradling him close and burying his face in her shoulder as the nightlight beside her leg zapped with a burst of electricity.

"It's all right, sweetie, just hold on for a second."

Kate dashed out of the room. Jenny's door was busted open and Dean was nowhere to be seen—she heard them downstairs, shouting and running—saw Sam approaching, the little girl holding him tightly. They ran down the stairs together, and Sam stopped at the bottom. Kate turned, confused, and he shoved Sari at her.

"Go!"

"What?" she barely had time to get the question out of her mouth before Sam was grabbed by an invisible force and bodily thrown backward.

_Oh shit._

"Sari, take your brother outside as fast as you can!" she thrust the toddler at his sister and nudged her toward the open door, trying to ignore the similarities to her own hazy experience that night twenty two years prior, pointing to Jenny and Dean watching the house with something akin to terror on their faces.

It was a good thing, too. "Mommy!" Sari shouted, then ran, holding tight to Ritchie. Kate saw her make it over the threshold, saw Dean realize they weren't coming out and start toward the house, then turned to find her own little brother. A slam behind her made her jump, and she whirled to see the front door had closed—and likely locked—of its own accord.

Kate snorted and narrowed her eyes, turning back toward where she'd last seen Sam. She levelled the shotgun filled with salt rounds.

"Fine, you bastard," she growled. "Bring it on."

Dashing into the kitchen, Kate spotted Sam—he was slumped against the cabinet, limbs askew and eyes closed, blood trickling down from his hairline. She ran to him, panic gripping her chest as it always did when she saw him in such a state.

"Come on, Sammy," she went to her knees beside him and slapped his cheek firmly. God, it was a wonder any of them had working brain cells left after all the head wounds they'd suffered; she checked Sam's scalp—very little blood, a small knot forming under her fingers…

Kate crashed into Sam's chest as something big and blunt hit her from behind, momentarily darkening her vision.

_Oh yeah, the poltergeist is here too. Son of a bitch._

Kate let herself slump against Sam, letting the spirit assume its attack had accomplished something while she took a few seconds to think up a plan. Distantly, she could hear pounding against the front door, Dean's voice barely audible over all the banging furniture and howling wind.

After a moment, the number of objects flying around settled a bit, the wind cut down, and Kate felt the temperature in the room drop to uncomfortable levels in a matter of seconds.

_Showtime_.

She jumped to her feet and whirled to face the spirit, shotgun ready in hand, but she never used it. The poltergeist, which had obviously thought both its victims were done putting up a fight, roared its fury, the sound absolutely deafening.

Kate had the vague impression of several sharp objects zooming toward them and on instinct, dropped the gun and shoved a hand in front of her as if she could toss up a brick wall solely with her mind.

_What the—?_

She was still struggling to register the fact that she had dropped her gun (_dropped. the. gun_.) when she noticed her fingers tingle as heat filled her palm. Light radiated from her skin; the knives and shards of glass stopped in midair eight inches from touching her or Sam, like they'd stuck fast in some sort of force field.

_Oh God, this definitely qualifies as weird._

The spirit seemed as shocked as she was, its ugly face twisted in rage but unmoving. No more knives headed their way, no more wind. Just eerie, stunned silence broken only by the sound of fracturing wood as Dean took what sounded like an axe to the front door.

Behind Kate, Sam gasped a breath she recognized—her little brother was coming to.

_Shit shit shit—_

She couldn't let her brothers see this…this…_freaky crap_! It was terrifying enough without becoming an outcast in her own family…

"K't?" Sam slurred behind her.

_Please, not yet, Sam, just stay down…_

The spirit grinned, sensing her reticence, and opened its mouth. Several things happened at once then: Kate shut her eyes and turned, letting go of the warm light that had been pooling in her palm and throwing herself on top of a weakly stirring Sam, hoping to shield him from whatever the spirit decided to hurl at them next. The knives clattered to the ground just as the front door slammed open and Dean bellowed her name from down the hallway. Kate shut her eyes tight, preparing for the worst—

And nothing happened.

After a split second, she looked up and nearly choked on her own heart. She felt Sam stiffen beneath her, which told her she wasn't the only one who saw it.

The next instant, a gun poked its way around the corner, trained right on—

"Dean, no!" Sam shouted, trying to struggle to his feet. Kate jerked away, trying to help him stand while refusing to take her eyes off the sight before her.

"Mom?" she breathed, afraid to look away, to move, god, to even _blink_…

The poltergeist was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Mary Winchester's ghost smiled at her three children, who were all staring at her in varying degrees of shock. She walked gracefully toward her oldest, and Kate thought her heart might break from the expression on Dean's face—it was aching, _desperate_ even. "Dean," Mom murmured, and his green eyes filled with tears at the sound of her voice. She lingered for only a moment before moving to Kate, who kept Sam close just in case her instincts, which screamed this was _really_ her mother's spirit, not some trick, were wrong.

"My Katie," she murmured, and Kate managed half a smile, which made Mom's smile widen.

Finally, she turned to Sam, and for the first time, her expression clouded. "Sammy," she said, and her voice held such despair that Kate felt a punch of fear. "I'm sorry."

Sam looked heartbroken and confused. "For what?"

But their time was up. Mom backed up, looking toward the ceiling, speaking to the poltergeist now. "And you. Get out of my house. And stay away from my children."

Flames engulfed her as conflicting roars filled the air, making Kate's eyes water. "Mom!" She reached out, and Mary's blue eyes met hers once more, sorrow and pride warring for dominance. Kate gasped back a sob, her chest tight.

_Don't go._

_Please._

But it was too late. Mary—and the poltergeist—were both gone in a rush of wind. Silence filled the room in the aftermath, broken furniture shifting and broken siblings leaning quietly on one another.

Sam slumped against the counter. "_Now_ it's over," he murmured, his voice wrecked.

Kate and Dean just nodded.

* * *

**A/N: And the plot thickens!** Here's where things start to get interesting—hang on for the ride, y'all!

**THANK YOU FOR READING!** Don't forget to leave me a note with what you liked, what you didn't, and any theories you might have—they're like catnip for my muse! Special thanks to **summerald**, **Nova42**, **CornishGirl**, and **Candy** for their help turning out chapters!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

**A/N: Thanks for reading** and reviewing! I've been so excited about sharing this chapter with you guys; things are about to get interesting!

Special thanks to my girl **Nova42** for her help and kicking me in the pants when necessary. Shout outs to Jennifer, Candy, and Summer for all their help and encouragement too! Y'all rock!

* * *

Caleb tossed his shovel into the bed of his truck and dusted off his hands, sighing deeply. It had been a long day; between case interviews, investigative work, research, and finally, the salt and burn that he'd just finished, the soldier-turned-hunter was ready for a patch up, a shower, and at least eight hours of rack time.

Of course, the job had been relatively straightforward, no crazy plot twists or exotic creatures he couldn't handle alone—Singer tended to assign him those kinds of cases, since he didn't have a partner. Even still, he was sporting a couple of injuries—among them a shockingly-painful gash on the underside of his forearm, from an inch above his wrist all the way to his inner elbow. He winced as he prodded gently at it—didn't look deep enough for stitches, which was a good thing, because stitching his right arm with his left hand would've been a real chore…

Caleb huffed as his phone vibrated in his jacket pocket, the ring over-loud in this quiet place. He pulled it out and felt a grin pull at his lips at the notification.

**1 NEW TXT MSG**

**KATIE W.**

"Ah, hello beautiful," he murmured to himself, opening the text eagerly. He hadn't heard from Katie in…well, far too long. Several weeks, at least; not since Sam had started hunting with her and Dean again.

Doubtless the boys and monsters were keeping her busy.

**OPERATION HOOKY. PLEASE?**

He laughed out loud at that. It was their own personal code—a set of super-secret "operations" they'd thought up while spending a night in an isolated cabin on a wendigo hunt with John and Dean a couple years ago. The two other men had been pretty badly wounded by the creature, and were sleeping like little babies under the influence of the industrial-strength painkillers Caleb always carried in his med-pack. It had been a long night, while Kate and Caleb had stood guard.

Operation Hooky was born when Kate had confided to him that sometimes, the protective nature of the men she lived with just became too damn much to handle. That once in a while, it crossed from comforting into suffocating territory, and none of them could understand it when she just needed to get away, thinking she was angry or offended.

He chuckled as he keyed in his reply and hit send before starting up his truck.

**OPERATION HOOKY COMMENCES TOMORROW 0800.**

* * *

Dean rolled over in bed, muttering under his breath at the insistent ringing of his phone. He felt around the rumpled covers for the thing, grumbling in frustration when it wasn't within immediate reach.

_God dammit._

"'Lo?" he grunted as soon as he got the blasted thing in hand, flipped open and answered.

"Dean Winchester," a far-too-awake voice greeted him. "How the hell are you, man?"

"Caleb?" Dean said, rubbing his eyes.

"The one and only."

"God, dude, what time is it? Wha'dya need me to shoot?"

His friend laughed. "It's after eight. Are you still in bed?"

"Yeah," Dean was sitting up now, blinking in the harsh light of morning and cursing the eight—_nine?—_beers he'd downed the night before. "Kate's on an R-and-R kick, made us take a few days off after our last case."

"Then you probably needed it," he could hear Caleb grinning. "She's usually right about that sort of thing. Speaking of which, is she around? I need her help and couldn't get hold of her on her phone."

Checking the room cursorily, Dean located Kate's note, left beside his bed. "She's on a walk," he crumpled the paper with an eye roll. Count on Kate to insist he and Sam sleep without an alarm, and then get herself up with the sun and go for a freaking walk. Just because.

He would never understand her.

"Ah. Well, when she gets back, will you have her call me? I need to borrow her strategy brain for a few days. Sounds like you guys are between jobs anyway, so that'll be convenient."

"Sure, I'll have her call," Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes, deciding he desperately needed coffee. Or more sleep.

More sleep sounded good, actually.

"Great! Later, man."

"Later."

Dean tossed his phone at the bedside table and collapsed on the thin pillow again.

It was a matter of hours later that all three Winchesters were tossing things into duffels, readying to go.

"I don't like it," Dean said, grumpily. He really didn't want to let Kate out of his sight, not so soon after…_Lawrence_. And then Sam taking off last week—though that had ended up working in their favor, their little brother's timing impeccable as he saved them both from death-by-creepy-live-scarecrow. But the point remained; he'd had enough of scattered family for a little while. And then Bobby had called soon after Kate returned with hot coffees, a new case on the line; and Dean _really_ didn't want to separate, not this time, not yet.

"You two can handle the rawhead, Dean," Kate explained patiently. "I'm going to be up to my eyeballs in musty old books, in no danger whatsoever."

"We'll come with you then." That was Sam. Dean felt the familiar tug—_family or job?_—and hated himself for even having to ask the question.

"You'll do no such thing," Kate rolled her eyes. "You'll go save those missing kids from that monster before it has a chance to target any more of them. And I'll go help Caleb get a handle on his ech-ushkya problem."

"Fine," he said. "But you call as soon as you get there—"

"—and at least once a day and when I leave." Kate tossed him a patient grin. "I know the drill, Dean."

He stood, placing his hands on her shoulders heavily. He still didn't like this. He held her gaze for a half minute, packed with silent communication, then kissed the top of her head. "Be safe."

She didn't let him go right away, gripping his forearms. It was a familiar routine, whenever they separated, and Dean took comfort in it, as he suspected she intended. She blinked up at him for a moment before completing the ritual.

"Don't die."

* * *

It took Kate a solid twenty four hours to reach Caleb in Dover, Delaware; but reach him she did. As was the point of Operation Hooky, Caleb had booked her a room in the same hotel as his—though across the parking lot, to give her some measure of privacy. He let her fuss over the laceration on his arm, they ate breakfast together, and then he left her to her own devices while he settled down in his room to enjoy a bit of rest himself.

Sitting alone in her burnt-orange room—trying not to look at the walls, because _ugh, that color_—Kate rolled the small satchel of herbs between her fingers thoughtfully. Missouri had sworn it would make her "more perceptive", which was probably some sort of high, really...

But the fiasco at their old house a couple weeks ago had spooked Kate. Whatever was going on with her, what with the freaky powers and the flashes of light and sound at the edge of her consciousness at random times, she was going to find out what it was.

Not that it made the entire thing any less terrifying. Luckily, she'd spent her entire life confronting terrifying things, this was no different.

At least that's what she told herself.

Sighing as the water on the tiny stove began to boil, Kate dropped the herbs into a mug, filling it to nearly the brim with hot water and gasping as the potent herbs filled the room with a pungent, cloying scent. "Gross," she muttered to herself, feeling her head go a little heavy. It wasn't sleepy-heavy though; more like I'm-suddenly-aware-of-gravity heavy. She blinked as her vision sharpened, lifted her head.

_Odd._

The traffic outside; had it always been that loud? The honking horns were abnormally noisy. Geez, was this what Missouri had meant by 'perceptive'? It was freaking annoying.

Still, if it helped her find the thing stalking her...Kate raised the mug to her lips.

"Do not drink that." The Voice came from all around her, and Kate dropped the cup of hot liquid in surprise. It hit the floor and shattered as she cursed, jumping back just quickly enough to prevent it splashing all over her clothes. "What the—?"

"If you do, you will be overwhelmed when I show myself," the Voice answered; the sound was loud and borderline uncomfortable, like listening to clanging church bells from inside the belfry, only slightly less dissonant. Kate dived for the bed and pulled her machete out.

"Who are you?" She asked, turning in slow circles with her blade held before her defensively, alert for any hint of movement or danger.

"That cannot hurt me," the Voice said, almost conversationally. The power inherent in the sound was nearly devastating, though, and Kate remained cautious. But she did lower her weapon, just a little.

"Call it moral support."

She sensed the being's slight amusement, though she still couldn't see anything. "My name is Nathanael," the Voice announced, and Kate was almost certain she heard thunder in the distance. "I am an Angel of the Lord."

She blinked slowly, machete dropping a few more inches just out of sheer shock. Disbelief coursed through her, then anger, and Kate dropped into a fighting stance.

"Sure you are, that's very funny. Now come out where I can see you!"

There was a pause, and the Voice answered, "As you wish."

Kate had only a moment to wonder if she regretted her command before it was fulfilled. At first, she wasn't really sure what she was looking at; a being of light, obviously, but it was unlike any light she had ever encountered. Shadowed black light provided an outline for a humanoid figure, while a blue glow made up most of its body. The creature..._angel?..._had long hair the color of ebony, and where the face of a human would have been was nearly blinding white light. It was a little like looking into the sun, and Kate blinked furiously to adjust. After a minute, she was able to make out features not unlike a human form—eyes, nose, mouth, ears.

But the most stunning thing about the creature before her were the towering wings that filled most of the hotel room. There were two of them, massive arching things that curled around the two of them. They were nothing like Kate had expected out of angel wings. First of all, if she had to assign a color to them—though it was difficult to do so—she would've said they were almost black, like the angel's hair. They shimmered too; not _sparkled_ like glitter, but were shot through with gold and blue light that shifted as the angel moved, much like the feathers of a bird.

Stunned, she barely noticed she was reaching out to touch the wings until one drew back, as if startled. She blinked again and faced the creature, unable to read its expression and hoping she hadn't just offended a real, bona-fide angel.

Because there was really no way to deny that's what she was looking at.

The enormity of it nearly bowled her over, and she muttered faintly, "I think I need to sit down."

The angel moved, and her legs folded before she commanded them to. She shut her eyes against the expected jolt of hitting the ground, but it never came. Instead, she opened them to find herself cradled in a pair of giant wings, lowering toward the carpet slowly.

"Fear not," the angel—Nathanael—boomed, and she winced a little. God, his voice was..._penetrating_. "I mean you no harm."

"I know," she answered without thinking, surprised to find she _did_ know. She had a feeling if Nathanael wanted her dead, she'd be long gone already. "I'm just...wow. So you do exist."

The angel tilted his bright head in a gesture that would've been endearing if he wasn't so..._alarming_, what with his huge wings and near-blinding physiology. "Of course I exist. I am standing right here."

She almost laughed. "No, I mean...angels. In general."

Nathanael didn't seem any less confused. "Did you not believe before this moment?"

"More, I _wanted_ to believe," she answered. "I just...wasn't completely convinced, I guess. It makes sense; if there are demons, why not angels?"

At that, Nathanael nodded. "That assessment more truly fits your usual character." At her confused look, he explained. "I have watched over you for many years, in between other assignments. I know you well, Katharine Winchester."

Kate sat in stunned silence for several seconds. "Well that's not at all creepy. Are you telling me you're my...guardian angel?" _Because if so, you've done a horrible job,_ she added to herself, thinking of all the times she or her brothers had been injured and nearly killed.

But Nathanael was shaking his head. "No. It is you who bear the title of Guardian."

"Uh….I'm sorry, but…_what_?" Kate didn't have a clue what this…half-cocked, terrifying, awe-inspiring angel was trying to tell her. "And don't call me Katharine." Nathanael's brows rose, and she added, "Please."

After a moment, he sighed (it sounded like a gale-force wind, really, but Kate was slowly acclimating to everything being so…_exaggerated_…with her companion). "It makes sense you would have no idea to what I am referring. Let me help you remember." With that, he stretched his bright hand toward her head, two fingers extended. Kate drew back before she could catch herself, and Nathanael paused only slightly.

"I will not hurt—"

"Right, I know, sorry," Kate leaned forward, her forehead meeting the angel's fingers. She gasped; it was like an electric shock, the muscles in her body spasming and her heart stuttering. Images flashed through her mind rapid-fire, exhausting in their clarity and enormity:

_A flash of blue at the corner of her eye the night they pulled Sam from his apartment at Stanford…_

_A being of light bearing a silver blade standing over her and Dean during that Banshee fiasco three years prior. She'd lost consciousness moments later…_

_Angel wings between her and the Black Dog that nearly bit her head off as a teenaged, brand-new hunter…_

_An innocent smile on a seven-year-old face as gentle, bright fingers touched her fevered brow in a skeezy motel room, a rumbling order reaching her ears, "Sleep"…._

_Intertwined hands looming over a blonde toddler she recognized as herself, blue light pouring from them into her chest as she watched, wide-eyed…_

Kate gasped as Nathanael's fingers left her brow, shivering at the cold sweat that had gathered on her skin. "You've…been here all along?" she breathed. "How come I don't remember-?"

"It was not yet time," he _(it? Did angels have genders?)_ answered, his voice beginning to make her head throb. Stupid herbs. "I had to erase myself from your memories multiple times over the years."

"Time for what?" she demanded, rubbing her temples and pointedly ignoring the terror of the idea that he could erase her memories. She'd deal with that later.

"Time for you to fulfil your destiny."

"My…my _what_ now?"

"Your destiny, Katharine," Nathanael answered, ignoring her request to shorten her name, but softening his voice marginally. She blinked, waiting for an explanation; when none was forthcoming, she raised her eyebrows and asked tightly, "My _destiny_?"

"Yes," he said. "Your brothers share a fate that will direct the course of this world; you have been assigned to protect them until it is their time. Your abilities have awakened; it is the First Sign of the coming Battle."

Kate narrowed her eyes. "Whoa whoa, the 'coming battle'? Signs? Abilities? I'm missing pieces to this puzzle, and you're making no sense. What did you do to me when I was a kid? Blue light over my chest, what was that about? Why have I not remembered seeing you all those times, until now? Tell me everything, or I walk."

Nathanael tilted his head again, appraising. Kate didn't move, didn't soften the glare she knew was on her face, despite the realization that she had just mouthed off to a freaking _angel_. After a moment, he nodded.

"As you wish."

His fingers touched her skin a second time, and suddenly, they were both inside her head—that white, vague sort of room that seemed to have no walls or horizons. She recognized it from her…_skirmish_…with Phoebe. Nathanael, who was in a much more human form than he'd been a few minutes prior, looked at her. She stood before him in jeans and a tee, surprisingly unarmed.

It was an indication of wary trust.

"Normally if I entered a person's mind like this, I would find myself in a setting that reflected the vessel's personality. A memory, perhaps, or a setting they find peaceful," the angel said, looking down at himself as though studying the form her mind had given him. "Interesting."

Kate looked around, a bit confused. "What's interesting? And why are we…here? Where exactly is _here_, anyway?"

For the first time, Nathanael looked something other than deadly-serious. His lips twitched in amusement.

"So many questions. It is interesting that your mortal mind sees me as an older man. If I'm not mistaken," he glanced at down at the floor and ran borrowed hands through short salt-and-pepper hair, "I quite resemble your father."

Kate just stared. Now that he mentioned it, he did look a bit like her dad—tall, graying, scruffy and strong—but she had no idea what it meant.

The angel hadn't paused. "As to your second question, it's a product of your Abilities. You have greater control over your mind than others. At first glance, I see only what you wish me to see. Right now, I could dig for whatever I wished and you'd be hard pressed to resist me; but that will come with time and practice."

"Is that why I could toss a demon out of my head?"

The angel nodded. "Partially."

Kate looked around, nodding her understanding. "And the rest?"

With a sweep of his hand, Nathanael projected his own memories onto the room around them. Kate gasped as she found herself in her old bedroom, in Lawrence; it was looking rather empty, and a tiny child slept alone on a small mattress in the middle of the floor, blonde curls askew around a chubby face.

"I remember this," Kate said, hushed with awe. "This was just before we moved out of our house. Sammy slept best in mom and dad's old bed—I guess there was still something of mom's scent in the pillows and sheets that he found comforting—and Dean wouldn't sleep at all with the baby out of reach. I would go to sleep in my room and usually end up moving into mom and dad's room with them a few hours later."

Nathanael nodded. "Watch."

They watched together as a bright figure—Nathanael as Kate had first seen him in her motel room—appeared next to the little girl's mattress. His form was muted, even to her eyes, and he knelt beside her, chanting something soft in a language she didn't recognize.

"Enochian, the language of Heaven," Now-Nathanael murmured, seeming to read the confusion in her eyes. "It was an ancient spell, one we'd never seen applied before." Little Kate stirred at the sound, eyes blinking open sleepily and going wide as she took in the form above her.

"You could see me even then," the angel smiled. "So few people can; it was only a confirmation, in my mind, that we were doing the right thing."

"Do not be afraid," Memory-Nathanael said. "I will not hurt you."

"You're an angel," the little girl answered. It wasn't a question. "Mommy always said angels were watching over us."

Memory-Nathanael held one hand over her small body, something shimmering and blue flowing from his palm into her chest. "That was inaccurate. You now have an angel watching over you, whereas you did not before."

Little Kate shook her head. "No, she was right. Mommy was always right."

Wisely, the angel did not engage the girl further, instead focusing on the grace that was filling her up, making her already-blue eyes glow temporarily with it. She just watched him, trusting and unconcerned.

"It's warm," she remarked when he took his hand away a moment later, looking down at herself, where the glow still shone through her skin. "What is it?"

"It is not yet time for you to know," was the response, and the angel placed two fingers on her forehead in a now-familiar gesture. The girl's eyes fluttered closed and she slept.

Kate turned to Now-Nathanael. "So you infused my body with…angel juice?"

"Grace," Nathanael answered. "Your _soul_—not your body—is imbued with angel grace, granting you abilities other humans do not have."

Kate blinked slowly, taking it in. "That all ties into the 'Guardian' title?"

"It does."

"And…_Heaven_ wants me to protect my brothers until…they decide they have need of them?"

A pause.

"In summary, yes."

Kate laughed. She couldn't help it, it was just too much. "Oh this is rich. Dean's going to _love_ this. My big oaf of an overprotective older brother, and _I'm_ supposed to keep _him_ from harm…"

"You can't tell them," Nathanael cut in.

Kate nearly choked.

"They cannot know any of this. It would destroy them both, keep them from fulfilling their destinies."

"Excuse me?"

"It must be this way."

"You can't expect—"

"I can," the angel's tone brooked no argument. "And I do. If you tell them, not only will your brothers suffer, the world will suffer too. They will learn of their destiny when the time comes, but it is not now."

"But—"

"Heaven has decreed it. If you refuse to comply, you will be…" he paused. Kate's eyes narrowed.

"Be _what_?" she asked, now eyeing him with some suspicion.

"These plans have been in place for thousands of years. We will not tolerate a…_loose cannon_…running about."

Kate stood aghast, eyes wide. "I thought Heaven was a force for _good_."

Nathanael furrowed his brow. "It is."

"Extortion, threat of bodily harm or execution? Those sound like hellish tactics to me, Nat."

The head tilt again. Kate glared. "No," he responded. "You, and even I, do not have the whole picture. Your father does the same thing on a regular basis; giving you orders without all the information. You comply then."

Oh, but he had her there. It had been part of their training, never to question a commanding officer, especially in the midst of a fight. They almost always had more knowledge of the situation than you did, and you—the grunt—went and did as you were told.

The comparison made her jaw clench.

"Fine," she finally responded. "But you can tell your boss I don't appreciate being threatened, and that the moment I think Sam or Dean are going to be hurt by my silence, all bets are off."

Nathanael appeared to consider. "I trust you will not allow that to become necessary."

The two stared at one another for a moment; a standoff, of sorts. Kate barely had time to wonder how in the _world_ her day had taken such a turn for the completely bizarre before a jarring ring echoed from somewhere far away. She jumped, startled.

"What—?"

"Your telephone," Nat said serenely. "Your brothers require your assistance. We will leave your mind now so you may go to them."

Kate gasped as she was thrown out of her own head, back into the real world, found herself sitting on the dingy motel bed, no angel in sight. Her phone rang again, prompting a curse and a pinch of her nose in an attempt to settle the headache that now pounded in her temples. She flipped the phone open and held it against her ear.

"Hello?"

"Kate?" Sam's voice was all wrong—too tight, too small, all _little brother_. "Kate, come quick. Dean's in the hospital. The doctor says….he…..it's _bad_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural. Obviously.

**A/N: THANKS FOR READING!** Don't forget to leave a review or PM me with your opinions, ideas, complaints, and/or predictions-feedback feeds my muse!

Enjoy!

* * *

Kate slammed the door to Caleb's truck, tossing a quick wave at him as she dashed inside—she'd already thanked her friend profusely several times over the last eighteen hours, since he'd insisted on giving her a ride—but Caleb knew enough about the Winchesters to know they needed to do this alone, so he drove off in a roar of diesel engine and a friendly honk goodbye.

Up on the sixth floor, Kate caught sight of her little brother. He was folded into a chair in the hall, elbows on his knees and shaggy hair hanging in his face.

He was the picture of defeat, and she couldn't stand it.

"Sammy?" she called, and his gaze snapped up to her. He stood, lurched toward her, the most extraordinary expression on his face. It was open, afraid, and completely vulnerable, in a way she hadn't seen him since he was a kid being bullied by the bigger boys in second grade.

The boys she and Dean had beaten to a pulp and gotten expelled for it.

Sam crashed into her with all the grace of a baby moose, and she was grateful she was abnormally tall, for a woman, because she was able to cradle his head properly against her shoulder by standing on her tiptoes, without him needing to bend nearly double. He was shaking, muscles tense to the point of snapping beneath her hands, and she rubbed his broad shoulder with her free hand.

"It's all right, Sammy, I'm here," she murmured nonsense into his ear for the next few minutes, determined not to push him for information until he was ready to give it.

Sammy kept her waiting a while. Wet heat registered on the nerves of her right shoulder, and that's when Kate realized he was crying and trying to hide it.

_Oh Sam._

She brushed her fingers through his soft hair, lingering on the way it curled at the tips, remembering how it used to soothe him as a child. Apparently that hadn't changed; Sam relaxed into the contact, his grip on her shifting, becoming less painful and more secure. After several minutes, he pulled back, eyes suspiciously wet and face flushed.

"Sorry," he croaked, and Kate shushed him.

"It's all right, Sammy, just tell me everything."

"The rawhead," Sam started. "It…I don't know. Dean sent me to get the kids out. He tried to taze it but he was standing in a puddle of water." Kate's intake of breath was sharp and pained, and Sam nodded in understanding. "Exactly. It triggered a heart attack and, the doctor says, damaged his heart permanently. They think…" he faltered, and Kate waited patiently, squeezing the nape of his neck encouragingly. "They think he won't make it a month. Katie, what do we do?"

Kate stared, frozen by the words even though she half-expected them the moment Sam said 'heart damage.' Saying it aloud, her brother made it more real, brought it too close to home; and she found herself wide-eyed and barely breathing as her heart slammed against her ribs.

_Damn it, Dean._

By the end of this little speech, Sam was practically whispering, and Kate felt the burden of older sibling-ship keenly upon her shoulders. Dad was absent, Dean dying, and Sam needed her to be strong despite her sick stomach and the ache in her chest at the idea that her older brother might….might…

_No._

"We're not going to let him die, Sam," she shook her head fiercely. "We _won't_. I'll take a shift with him; you go back to the room and get some rest. I'll start researching here. Turn over _every_ stone. We will find something."

Sam was nodding, jaw set and eyes wide. Determination showed vibrant in his expression, and Kate almost smiled to see it.

There was nothing could stop Sam once he'd made up his mind about something.

But she had a lead of her own to pursue. First, though…

"Okay," she nodded. "Now where is he? I'm gonna punch him in the face for getting himself electrocuted."

* * *

Dean flipped through channels on the small TV aimlessly. He wasn't watching anything, not really; daytime television was _truly_ horrid.

Maybe he could distract Sam with that. Dean knew the kid was in the hall talking to his doctor; he was gonna be all teary-eyed and maudlin when he got back. The doc had already told Dean what his condition was, and it was an ugly prognosis.

Not that Dean was surprised. He always thought he'd die on a hunt. It wasn't at all unusual—he had been hunting for ten whole years. So few folks in the life made it even that long, he supposed he was probably on borrowed time already.

Twenty-six was already old, for a Hunter raised into it.

The only thing about the situation that gave him pause was leaving Sam and Kate behind. He knew they'd look out for each other, but…

Well.

There wasn't much of a 'but', was there? That was really all there was to it—Kate would make sure Sam was safe and happy, and Sam would protect her to his dying breath; Dean knew this.

They didn't really need him.

_Good_, he thought, trying desperately to ignore the way his heart clenched at the thought. It was good, he wouldn't want them to suffer, he wanted them to be okay—

"Dean?" Sam had come back, and he wasn't alone. Dean stifled a sigh.

Kate stood there too, tall and slender and strong. She was paler than he liked, but her eyes were dry and her lips tight—an expression that meant she was holding back some emotional response. Dean looked at the two of them, his baby siblings, and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

When had they gotten so grown up? When had they stopped being the scrawny gangly kids he comforted through nightmares and trained to fight and raised, in the absence of their father?

"Have you ever actually watched daytime TV?" he asked wearily, trying to ignore the way the wave of emotion swamping him made it actually, physically hard to breathe.

"Dean—"

"That fabric softener teddy bear? Oh, I'm gonna hunt that little bitch down."

Sam tensed visibly, while Kate just cocked an eyebrow, as if to say_, that's how you want to play it? Fine._

"Sam's going to the hotel," she announced. "Looks like you gotta put up with me for tonight."

_And I'm not gonna take your crap,_ her eyes telegraphed. Dean winced internally. His tough-guy act wasn't working on either of them, but Kate was the one who would push him to have a chick-flick moment, and he wasn't quite so successful shutting her up usually.

_Damn it._

"Great, well, you rest up Sammy. Looks like y'all are leaving town without me."

Kate's jaw clenched, and she pulled a protesting Sam away. They conferred quietly across the room—which pissed Dean off, by the way—and Sam nodded once. Kate pulled him down for a long hug, and he tossed a wave at Dean as he left.

Kate crossed the distance between them in three strides and sat smoothly in the chair beside the hospital bed.

"You two better take care of that car, Kate," he supposed if he was deliberately boorish, maybe she'd get pissed off and leave him alone instead of peeling back what was left of his defenses and exposing him. "But let Sam have it; I know you've always preferred trucks anyway, and he'd appreciate it."

Kate shrugged, looking at the grainy picture on the TV. "Sure, Dean, whatever you say."

Shit, she wasn't taking the bait. Dean sighed; he wasn't strong enough to fight her right now; he was exhausted and felt weak enough it made him despise himself.

More than he normally did, anyhow.

He tried again. "You can have my amulet though; I don't think Sammy will mind, and it won't do me any good once I'm just a bunch of scattered ashes—"

"Cut it, Dean," Kate ordered, intensely blue eyes flicking to his and refusing to let him go. "I get that you're sick and afraid and you don't want to talk about it. I won't make you talk. But _don't_ hide from me. Don't you _dare_."

Dean blinked furiously in an attempt to disperse the sudden moisture in his eyes. But he nodded, mute, and turned back to the television. There was a puling man confessing his love to an overly-made-up woman wearing too much jewelry. Sickened, Dean flicked the TV off and focused instead on the thin blanket covering his lap. Kate said nothing.

After a moment, he patted the space beside him. He wouldn't talk, and she wouldn't make him; but dammit, he wanted her closer, and he was dying. He was entitled.

"'M cold," he muttered by way of explanation, but Kate was already moving. She slid onto the sterile sheet beside him, kicking her boots off and pulling the blanket over her own legs as she sidled up beside him. Dean leaned into her almost imperceptibly, which made Kate huff an exasperated sigh and lay her head on his shoulder.

Her soft blonde hair tickled his cheek, and Dean let his lips brush over her warm scalp, working hard to control the tears now.

"It's okay, Dean," Kate whispered, and a single drop of wet escaped, landing on her head beneath his lips. "I got you."

Dean nodded, and let himself relax into the comfort she offered. His eyes felt droopy anyway, his body exhausted despite the fact he hadn't done more than sit up since he woke up from the electrocution. Everything hurt, everything felt twice as heavy as it ought, and he was just so damned _tired_.

Dean fell asleep, cheek pillowed against Kate's blonde curls.

* * *

The hospital chapel was easy to locate, for all that it was isolated and tucked away in a tiny hallway on the second floor. Kate left Dean sleeping peacefully; she would be back in minutes, he would not wake alone.

She noted gratefully that the chapel was empty. Nat had said regular folks couldn't see him, but they still spoke to one another aloud—and the last thing she needed was some poor person of faith, here looking for comfort, instead stuck listening to her one-sided conversation with an angel. Kate snicked the lock on the door behind her and sat quietly in one of the padded pews, looking toward the altar and cross in the front of the small room.

If angels were real, she wondered suddenly, did that mean God was too?

Filing that question away for later, Kate focused hard. Everything in her railed against it—she wanted to scream, to cry, to mourn her brother and every nasty thing they hunted and all the pain the last twenty-four hours had inflicted on her family—but she could cry later, if her plan failed.

For now, she had work to do.

"Nat?" she called quietly, putting every ounce of will she possessed behind the call, lacing her voice with heavy intent. "Nathanael, I need your help. Please come now."

Light danced behind her closed eyelids, like summer on a beach, and the angel's booming voice announced, "I am here, Katharine." She opened her eyes, but didn't allow herself to indulge the incipient sense of wonder that made her skin tingle with goosebumps at the dazzling figure of Nathanael before her.

There wasn't time for _wonder_.

"My brother," she choked on the word.

"I know. Fear not, it is not yet his time of dying."

Kate blinked rapidly. "Someone should tell his heart. Can you heal him?"

"I can," Nat's head tilted slightly as he regarded her. "But we believe you may be able to, as well. It is our intent that you attempt it."

Kate was silent, torn hopelessly between _I might be able to heal?_ and _it is "their intent" that I try?_ Uncertain, she just sat there staring, jaw slack and eyes wide. Nathanael raised one bright eyebrow.

"Is there a problem, Katharine?"

"Uh…" was her eloquent response. She shook her head to clear it after another moment. "I don't know how."

Nat nodded. "I will remain at your side and assist you. Come."

And that was it. Kate had prepared herself to bargain, deal, even to beg if necessary; but sixty seconds later she was standing in an elevator with a blinding-bright angel, trying not to squint so the old man also occupying the small space wouldn't think her crazy.

The glaring contradiction between the humdrum elevator music, the awkward silence between her and the stranger, and the presence of a massive angel whose wings filled every available inch of space in the cramped area would have made Kate laugh under different circumstances.

The ding of the elevator bell at the sixth floor made her jump, and the old man gave her a sympathetic smile as she walked out. "Good luck," he croaked, and she turned back just long enough to nod at him.

"That was kind of him," she murmured to Nat as they walked toward Dean's room—to any observer, it would seem she simply made a comment to herself.

"Kindness is as present in this world as brutality," the angel responded, and something hitched in the vicinity of Kate's chest. "Love, generosity, loyalty—they are just as common as the horrors you and your brothers see."

_I know_, Kate thought. _That's why we do what we do._

But she just gave a short nod, swallowed the tightness in her chest, and led Nathanael into Dean's room. The angel's mass made everything seem that much smaller, including her brother, whose skin had taken on a sickly-gray pallor when his heart stopped working properly. It made the bruised dark circles around his eyes seem even darker, bloodless lips turned down in a pained frown, even in sleep. His breathing was shallow, but a look at the machines that monitored his every bodily function told Kate nothing had changed in the five minutes she'd been gone. She moved to stand on his right, at the level of his chest.

"All right," she murmured. "What do I do?"

Nathanael spread his towering wings over the bed, enclosing them all in warm, golden light that reflected off the dark light-feathers. "As you advance in your abilities, you will not need me to do this," the angel said, and his voice seemed somehow stronger, rattling in Kate's very bones. "But I have charged the atmosphere in this small dome, wherein Dean's body will be more disposed to heal and you will have an easier time accessing your Grace."

That sounded about right, seeing as how the hair on the back of Kate's neck was standing straight at attention.

"Now," Nat continued. "Focus, Katharine. Find your Grace."

Unsure of where to even begin, Kate closed her eyes and tried hard to do as he said.

_Find your Grace, find your Grace._

It came surprisingly easily. One moment she was repeating the mantra inside her head; the next, her eyes popped open with a gasp and everything seemed brighter, bluer. _She had it_. She knew, somehow, that she had hold of the Grace that had been imbued into her soul as a child; had grown with her, changed her even as she changed it, until it had become something…_other_. Something different than standard angel juice.

Something _ridiculously_ powerful.

She could sense it, hot and bright, warming her from the inside and drawing out goosebumps as it pressed out against her skin, threatening to break free.

"Good," she heard Nat say, and his voice seemed less thunderous than before, more manageable to her ears and bones. "Now—"

But the angel didn't get to finish, for instinct had Kate's right hand stretched over Dean's chest in less than a second, as if it sensed illness and wanted—no, _needed_—to repair the damage. Kate barely had to do more than give the conscious command, and her hand began to glow with blue light that shone through her skin and muscle, highlighting the bone structure beneath.

It was the freaking _coolest_ thing she'd ever experienced.

She sensed the Grace set aright the damage electricity had done to her brother's heart, and move to the path it had burned through his insides, soothing and restoring every damaged cell and nerve until all was restored to its former health.

There were other things she sensed—scar tissue from old wounds, calcification from broken bones, and the beginnings of plaque buildup in his blood vessels, courtesy of too many years of crappy mini-mart food. Kate couldn't let herself give in to the instinct to heal it all, to leave her brother clean and unharmed as the day he was born, but she did repair his alcohol-ravaged liver and clean up some of the plaque in his arteries before Nat's voice came again, faraway and muffled.

"He awakes."

A jolt in the vicinity of her stomach threw Kate out of her head and backward, away from Dean's bed. The wing dome was gone, as was the angel who'd provided it, and Kate was slumped in the hospital chair trying to catch her breath. Dean was breathing more erratically, waking up, and before Kate could arrange herself better, the pain hit.

It was _intense_; a flare of fire in every nerve she possessed, a wave of exhaustion that pressed her further into the hard cushion, a blinding agony behind her eyes that wrenched them shut on a gasp. She barely had a moment to adjust before Dean sat bolt upright in his bed.

Green eyes popped open, accompanied by a starved intake of air. Kate tried to school her features, really she did, and Dean was so busy coming to that he could perhaps be forgiven for not noticing his sister's distress right away.

She was at his side bare seconds later, shoving aside pain in favor of checking over her big brother.

"_Dean?_"

"Kate?" he rasped, blinking hard in the cold light of the hospital room. "What the hell?"

"I don't know," she lied smoothly, and shoved him back down. It was pitifully easy—apparently her Grace did not restore strength, only repaired physical damage. "You just...spazzed out. Gave me a heart attack."

He was quiet, and when she held his gaze, brow raised, he scowled. "Not funny."

She couldn't help but smirk, shaky as it was. "Come on, it's a little funny."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

Sam typed away quietly at his laptop, ignoring the frequent flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder outside; settled on the brown comforter of their latest motel-of-the-week. Well, he hoped they wouldn't be here for a week; the carpet was stained, the walls moldy, and the smell was horrid—disinfectant over rot.

_Nasty._

As a precaution, he and Dean had settled Kate over top the blankets, using one of theirs from the Impala to cover her up. Sam was of the opinion they were going to have to break down and use the ones from the bed soon; their sister was shivering violently where she lay a few feet away. Dean—miraculously healed of whatever damage the electrocution had done and released less than six hours ago from the hospital—was off on a supply run, presumably for Kate's "stomach flu." And definitely, Sam tried not to laugh at the thought, cleaning his Baby up.

It was his own damn fault. Sam had taken one look at their sister when he arrived at the hospital, and demanded they stay in town that night. Kate was deathly white, sweating, lips bloodless, and walking gingerly, like it hurt. Dean had given her a concerned look, but protested that he wanted nothing more than to be as far from this hospital as was humanly possible, and Kate—_of course_—had agreed with him. They'd gotten all of an hour from Springfield before Kate had lost the battle with her nausea—all over the carpet in the backseat.

His own apprehension aside, Sam had had to work hard to mask the laugh that built in his throat at Dean's face—equal parts shock, horror, and genuine concern. They had pulled off at the very first motel they could find after that, in tiny Oxville, Illinois; it was disgusting, even by their standards, but at least Kate had a place to puke and wait out this fever. Dean had stayed long enough to carry her inside, then left her in Sam's care as he went to stock up and clean up, all three familiar with the Sick Sibling Procedure—younger stays, older goes for supplies.

A sudden flash followed almost immediately by a deafening crash of thunder had Kate sitting bolt upright in bed. "Sam?" she rasped. He smiled.

"Hey, sunshine, how you feeling?"

"Screw you," she moaned irritably, collapsing back against the headboard, and Sam laughed out loud. "Where's Dean?"

"Gone to get supplies and clean up the Impala."

"In this?" Kate gestured outside and swallowed convulsively. Sam grabbed the trashcan as he walked over to sit on the bed beside her. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Yeah, you look it."

"God, you're a jerk."

"But you love me."

"A _delusional_ jerk."

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day, sister mine."

Kate opened her mouth to retort, but instead ended up hanging over the side of the bed, spitting up bile into the dirty plastic garbage can. Sam held her hair out of the way silently, concerned at the heat radiating off her pale skin.

Kidding aside, her condition really was concerning him. This was no normal stomach flu—they'd all seen enough of that to know what a bug looked like, and this wasn't it. Her fever was too high, her breathing too shallow, heartbeat too thready.

"God," she groaned as she wiped her mouth and sat back, eyeing the water he offered for a second before closing her eyes. "H'rts, Sammy."

"Where?" he asked, urging the glass a little closer. "You should drink a little."

She huffed. "Everywhere. But mostly m' head. 'S like a migraine. And I'll just throw up again."

"Sip slowly," Sam insisted. "The last thing you need is dehydration in addition to all this." Sighing, Kate sipped at the lukewarm water as ordered. Sam was frankly shocked that was all the fight he'd got out of her—she must be really feeling crappy. After half a glass, she was looking a little green around the gills, so Sam put the glass on the bedside table as she shifted to lie down.

He reached out to stroke her eyelids—a trick she'd used on him as a kid to help him fall asleep, one that was surprisingly relaxing. Kate winced and turned her head, muttering, "Eyes hurt too, sorry."

"This doesn't seem like a normal bug to me," he confessed, moving back over to his laptop to do some research of a different sort. "What happened to you back there?"

Kate just groaned and turned over, her back to him. "N'thing. 'S just a flu. Better 'n the mornin'."

_Yeah right._

As she fell back into a fitful sleep, Sam shook his head and examined what he knew.

_She was alone at the hospital (if you don't count an unconscious Dean)._

_She was alone with the demon._

_She ousted the demon—with nothing more than her mind, which was weird enough._

_Dean was miraculously healed hours after she arrived—also weird._

_Weird stuff happens around us, though._

_Except her physical state after the weirdness is the same both times—flu, fever, migraine, puking everywhere._

_If this is like last time, it's going to take her a few weeks to be back to full strength._

_So is Dean's miracle related to the same thing as the demon was?_

Sam didn't like where his logic was leading. Everything pointed to something…_supernatural_, frankly. Like his visions—and what they did to his body—she seemed to have some sort of ability going on that her body wasn't accustomed to handling.

_Wait a second._

Sam clenched his jaw. Was she—

The door clattered open, interrupting his train of thought, his older brother stomping in amidst a howl of wind and rain.

"Damn, it's like the freakin' apocalypse out there," Dean griped. He tossed the plastic bags on the table unceremoniously, and Kate jolted awake with a groan. Sam sent the oldest Winchester a withering look.

"It's okay, Katie; Dean's back."

"God damned pack of elephants," she muttered faintly, long fingers slipping into her hair and clenching around her head. Sam winced sympathetically. Dean's green eyes were wide, noting the fetal position and head holding; he sat next to Sam—much more quietly this time.

"How bad?" Dean asked in a low voice.

Sam shook his head. "Hope you brought plenty of medicine."

* * *

Lightning streaked across an eerie green sky, casting her pale skin in a strange light. Thunder followed no discernible pattern as it would in reality, crashing and rumbling at random.

Kate blinked, noting the odd shrubby trees in a wide circle around her. Despite the driving rain, delicate white buds bloomed thickly on the rough branches, nodding in the wind but seemingly untouched by the icy drops that stung her skin.

_I'm dreaming._

"The dog got away," Sam's voice was right beside her, but he was younger than he ought to be—the fourteen year old who had tried to catch the stray pup with her in that tiny town in Kansas all those years ago. "It's not _fair_, Kate."

"I know," she replied automatically, reaching for him, but he disappeared.

"You should know better," this time it was Dean, on her other side and the proper age. But his eyes were all wrong, dark and somehow sinister. "You're holding him back. Both of you are."

Light flashed again—brilliant white-blue this time—and her dreamscape vanished, leaving a scruffy, tall man before her.

"Nat?" she asked. "Am I still dreaming?"

"No." The angel seemed completely nonplussed, as if he belonged there.

She fought irritation out of her voice. "So you can just come on in here and take over whenever you like, huh?"

One thick eyebrow raised, and she was sure it would've looked more elegant in his true form rather than this oddly-familiar one her mind had assigned the angel. "If you like, I can wait until you awake and come back."

Knowing what _that_ would look like to her already-concerned brothers, Kate conceded with a small shake of her head. "No, this is probably better. What do you want?"

"You are ill."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Dark eyes narrowed. "Do you always employ such…crass language?"

"How long have you known me?"

"All your life."

Kate sighed. Apparently literalness was the name of the game with this guy. "Yes, I usually employ crass language. What are you here for, Nat? I need to rest so I can heal."

A hand waved dismissively. "The grace imbued in your soul will restore the balance in your body in mere hours. Your brothers have nothing to fear."

"Yeah, except they don't know that, do they?" Kate forced her voice to remain calm, impassive. "They believe I'm really sick. I can tell I'm really sick—sick enough they may take me to the hospital if it keeps up. This fever is out of control."

"It is rather high, for a human."

"What happened, anyway? Why does my body do this?"

Nat tilted his head in that irritatingly almost-endearing way. "I can only theorize."

She gestured expansively. "Theorize away. Because this can't keep up forever, my brothers are going to figure out there's a pattern here if I keep getting sick after miraculous things happen."

"We believe the human body is not accustomed to the use of angel grace as an ability within it. When you use your grace, it seems to overstimulate your cells—and thereby, your nerves, organs, everything."

"So my body reacts accordingly—flu in response to overactive white cells; headache in response to overstimulated senses of sight, hearing, touch…"

"Yes."

"How long will it take to normalize?"

The angel shook his head. "We do not know. Last time, when you fought Phoebe the demon, it took mere hours before your body began to regulate."

"But weeks before I was well again."

"That was the fault of the pharmaceuticals you took," Nat fixed her with a hard stare. "Your body overreacted to them too, prolonging your pain."

Kate sighed. "So I'm supposed to not only expect Dean and Sam to believe I'm fine, but convince them I don't need meds."

"You must. Their…'solution'…will only exacerbate your body's reaction to the grace."

"Well, shit."

* * *

"Well, shit," Dean grunted, and Sam looked up from his laptop. His older brother was sitting beside Kate with an oral thermometer, glaring at the small plastic device as though it had personally offended him.

"What?" Sam asked.

"One hundred and four," Dean reported, beginning to shake their sister gently. "We need to get some aspirin in her. Come on, Kate, wake up."

Sam stood as Kate moaned, blinking owlishly before squinting and burying her head in the thin pillow again.

"Come on," Dean coaxed. Kate slapped him away weakly, and Dean scowled. "Kate, don't do this. You need water and pills. Come on."

"No," her words were muffled by the cotton pillow, but her curled-up, head-hidden posture said everything she wasn't really able to with words. "No pills."

"Kate," Sam tried to help, a hand on her shoulder making her flinch away.

"Stop! Jus' lemme sleep. Be f'ne 'n a few hours."

"Katharine," Dean used his big-brother voice now, the one neither of them dared disobey. "Take the damned aspirin."

She smacked his hand away—harder this time—and opened bloodshot eyes. "No. Dean, give me twelve hours, if it's not better I'll take them then."

"Why?" Sam asked. "Why not just take them now?"

_What is she doing?_

"Can't," she muttered. "Don' wanna get add'cted."

Dean rolled his eyes. "They're friggin' _aspirin_, Kate, no one gets addicted to aspirin."

But she was out again, or just ignoring him.

"Got half a mind to just stick 'em in your mouth and let 'em dissolve," Dean muttered, tossing the pills on the table ill-temperedly.

"Try it and I'll bite your fingers off," Kate threatened clearly, eyes still closed.

Dean glared hard at her and slammed the door to the bathroom as he went in. Kate sighed, and Sam sat on the other bed, perplexed.

_What exactly just happened?_

For the rest of the afternoon, Dean drove Sam mad with his fidgeting. He cleaned the guns (_again_), then stared at the tv, then puttered around in the tiny kitchenette, then paced, then stood by the window and watched the rain come down in sheets.

It was coming up on ten o'clock when Sam had had enough. "Dean, seriously!" he cried, exasperated. "Sit down, man."

Dean just growled at him and flopped onto his back on the end of the bed. Sam resisted the urge to stretch his leg just so and push his brother off.

He had a feeling Dean wasn't in the mood, even though he himself would've found it wildly entertaining.

"Why's she gotta be so damn stubborn?" Dean whined.

Sam snorted, not dignifying the question with an answer. No need, when they both knew why already.

She was a Winchester. _Stubborn_ was a prerequisite.

Twelve hours _on the dot_ after Kate's refusal to take the aspirin (never mind it was near midnight now), Dean snatched the thermometer off the bedside table and shook their sister—still gently, Sam noted with an inward smile. Kate stirred and opened her eyes blearily, shifting back toward them and stretching with a slurred, "wha' happen'd?"

Sam could tell immediately she was feeling better. She wasn't moving like she was in pain anymore, her skin wasn't sheened with sweat or that scary paper-gray color, and she didn't wince at the light. Dean didn't give her a chance to talk before stuffing the thermometer in her mouth; Kate yanked it back out and sat up, eyes never leaving Dean's as she placed it carefully beneath her tongue—_by herself_.

_Yeah, she's feeling better._

Dean didn't move until the device beeped softly. He reached for it, but Kate beat him to it; studying the display before handing it to her older brother with a look that bordered on smug.

"Ninety-nine point eight," Dean muttered, and Sam felt his confusion deepen at the exact same time his amusement spiked. The oldest Winchester sibling looked simultaneously relieved and irritated; a look that Sam and Kate had spent _years_ deliberately garnering from him.

It was in the rule book. Kate had told him so, when they were little.

True to form, Dean didn't stick around long after Kate shoved him off her bed and went to take a shower. Sam knew he'd been wound up tight with worry all day; now that the danger was past, Dean would go relax the way Dean relaxed best—at a bar.

Which suited Sam just fine tonight. Dean wasn't the only one who'd been worried sick, nor was he the only one with plans for the rest of this night.

Kate stepped out of the bathroom just as Dean shut the motel room door with a semi-grumpy, "Back later."

"Something I said?" she asked, stuffing her dirty clothes into her duffel before tossing it back in the corner. Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"Nah, he just needs to chill."

"Ah," Kate's lips curled into a grin. "Well I'm sure he'll come back nice and relaxed."

Sam laughed. Drunk Dean was even funnier—and more fun to prank—than Sober Dean, and he had no doubt Kate would try to rope him into some shenanigans early the next morning, when they two were up but Dean was sleeping it off.

"Probably," he conceded. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good," came the response. "Almost back to normal."

Sam kept his tone neutral. "Well, whatever that was, it hit hard and fast."

"Mmm."

There was silence for a few minutes as Kate scribbled in her journal while Sam clicked away at his laptop, not really looking at anything in particular. He lasted less than sixty seconds.

"Kate."

"Yeah, Sammy."

"That wasn't a flu."

His sister paused, then continued writing. "Sure it was."

"No," he set aside his laptop and turned, swinging his legs off the side of the bed to face her properly. "It wasn't."

Kate kept writing, studiously ignoring him.

"Kate."

"What, Sam?"

"Stop it. Look at me."

She set her pen in the spine of the journal and turned longsuffering blue eyes to him. "Happy?"

"Not even remotely. I know something's going on with you, and I think I know what it is."

Expressions danced over her face in the space of a second—shock, disbelief, _fear?—_before she settled on annoyance.

It was such an older sibling tactic, annoyance, that Sam had to physically try not to roll his eyes.

"Oh yeah? What do you think is going on with me, Doctor Winchester?"

Ignoring the sarcastic jibe, Sam matched her with a glare of his own. "You're like me, aren't you?"

This time Kate didn't try to hide her shock. "Like y—_what_?"

"Psychic," Sam said slowly, as though talking to an idiot. "You've got the psychic thing going on, like me."

"Sam—"

"Your body responds to it a little different than mine, and maybe yours is a bit more developed or something, because I can't heal people, by any stretch of the imagination; but we're the same, you and me. Aren't we?"

Kate blinked, mouth gaping like a fish. She closed it, but it fell open again a moment later. Still, she was silent.

"Come on, don't insult my intelligence," Sam couldn't decide if he was more relieved or worried, having his suspicions confirmed.

_He wasn't alone._

_Kate was like him._

_Whatever horrid fate awaited him awaited her too._

"Sam, I—"

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Relief was giving way to a sense of betrayal that took him by surprise. "Why let me be so afraid of this when you could've told me all along what's going on?"

"Because I couldn't!" Kate interrupted, and Sam stopped talking long enough to notice her face was pale again. She continued, "Because I don't know if it's the same thing, Sammy. I don't think it is."

_It definitely is._

"But there _is_ something going on," he confirmed.

"I just…" Kate shoved a hand into her hair, pulling and brushing at her blonde curls—a sure sign of emotional distress. "Sam, I can't—"

"It's okay," he assured. She didn't want to talk about it, was probably afraid of it, didn't know what was happening…

God, _he_ knew the feeling.

"It's okay, Katie. We don't have to…but…aren't you going to tell Dean?"

"No!" her eyes widened and her back snapped to ramrod-straight.

_Wow, Kate, okay. Geez._

"No," she said again, visibly forcing herself to relax. "He's already worried sick about you, I don't want to make things worse."

"Kate, he's not stupid. You keep having reactions like this, he's gonna figure it out, like he did my headaches and nightmares."

Kate shuddered. "I know."

Suddenly, despite his previous assertion that they didn't have to talk about it, Sam wanted nothing more than to have answers to the million questions chasing themselves around his skull.

"When did it start for you, Kate?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Why are your abilities different from mine? Where did this come from? How come you can heal but I can't? Can I?"

_Can I heal people?_

_That_ would be a useful skill.

"Sammy, I don't have answers for you," Kate said quietly, swinging her legs off the bed to face him. She leaned forward, took his hand in her smaller one, held his gaze. "I don't know much of anything about all this. I only knew I couldn't let Dean…_die_." She shifted, looking at her fingers, clenching around his restlessly. "I just wanted—_needed_—to help."

Sam clenched his jaw against a wave of emotion. "I know," he said softly. "I'm sorry, it's all right, Kate. I won't tell Dean. But—" he ducked his head to catch her eyes, forced her to look at him. Let the weight of his words show in his gaze. "_You_ need to. You can't keep something like this from him. You _shouldn't_. We'll handle it better together, all of us."

Kate's eyes skittered away and down, and her ears turned bright pink. "Yeah, Sammy, okay."

Deciding he'd made his point, Sam let the conversation hang for a second before sitting back and squeezing his sister's shoulder. "You're really feeling better?"

She nodded, gave him a small smile. "I am. Think I'm gonna sleep though, I'm still pretty tired."

Sam followed suit, putting his laptop away for the night. By the time he settled himself cozily in bed and flipped off the light, Kate was turned away and breathing deeply.

Sam sighed into the darkness, letting himself absorb the night's revelations.

_I'm not alone._

_Kate is like me._

_We're gonna get through this together._

_I'm not alone._

He fell asleep to the words rattling in his head like a mantra.

_I'm not alone._

* * *

**A/N:** How about that season finale, eh? Holy cats.

Remember to review, if you're so inclined! Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

"Aw, come on sweetheart, you know you want some company."

Kate pinched the bridge of her nose and resisted the urge to punch the half-drunk moron standing a little behind her. The guy was young and good-looking, and didn't understand the meaning of "no thank you. " Frankly, he was lucky _Dean_ hadn't seen him yet. Her older brother was a master at dealing with pushy guys—Kate could handle it on her own, obviously, but she so enjoyed watching him break them down and chase them off with barely two words, that she often let him do it just for the entertainment value. Man-whore Dean may be, but their father had instilled in both her brothers a healthy respect for a woman's right to say no and be left alone.

Which was more than could be said for this _lout_. Now he was leaning over her shoulder, trying to look at what she was writing. Kate shifted, eyeing the bar, where Dean was cheerily chatting up the bartender, trying to find any information he could on their very-dead waitress, Meredith. Sam was on his way, having stopped at the hotel to do some digging in Dad's journal and the small collection of books they habitually brought along in the Impala. Kate busied herself writing, looking for anything else they'd missed.

Well, she _had_ been, until the super-fit, over moisturized, perfectly-styled boy-man began staring. She'd known it instantly, that he was watching, and made herself look as busy as possible, hoped he'd get bored with her lack of response to his leering face across the room and find someone who actually _wanted_ to be hit on.

True to the infamous Winchester Luck, it was not to be. He had sauntered over a few minutes prior and begun with the "Did it hurt?" pickup line, and Kate could've punched his chiseled jaw for sheer unoriginality.

"Come on, man," she sighed, finally looking up at him. "I've got work to do. There are plenty of women here who'd love to have your attention."

He smirked, looking triumphant—apparently he thought he'd made some sort of progress by getting her to stop writing. "But they're not you, Sugar."

"Lucky them," Kate muttered, then spoke up louder. "Listen, Butch—" He looked at her funny, and Kate almost snorted. He certainly _looked_ like a Butch. "I'm not interested, okay? Move along." Then she stood to go, decided a seat elsewhere might deter her stubborn duckling. Instead, he grabbed her arm, spun her around to face him.

"Hey!" Those previously-limpid blue eyes were darker now, alcohol making what must have been a normally-pushy spoiled brat into a more dangerous animal, unaccustomed to being told no.

"You see this face?" he asked incredulously, as if it were unaccountable a female could say no to plucked brows and high cheekbones. "I could have any girl in here I want, bitch."

Kate cocked an eyebrow, bored. "Except this one. Let go of my arm if you value that perfect face of yours."

Not-Butch took a deep breath and squeezed her arm tighter, preparing to say something more, before he froze. His gaze slipped past Kate and fell on what she was certain was Dean's doubtless-furious face behind her. Lightning-quick, Kate twisted her arm out of his grip and slammed two hands into his chest, shoving him back so hard he tripped over his own feet and landed on his ass. Standing over him, Kate clenched her jaw.

Entitled _child_.

"I said _move along_," she repeated. Not-Butch stood up in a huff, stared hard for a minute, seeming to war with himself whether to leave or stay. Kate felt her brother step closer, sensed his steadying presence just behind her left shoulder.

Not-Butch turned and stomped off.

Kate rolled her eyes as she turned. "Thank _god_. What an asshole."

"No kidding," the voice wasn't Dean's, it was Sam's. Kate looked up to meet his eyes, a smile crinkling her eyes. Her little brother wasn't so little these days, and this wasn't the first time it had worked in her favor. "I thought you were going to castrate him."

Kate snorted, looking about quickly to locate Dean—he was smiling as the bartender wrote something on a napkin.

Fifty bucks said it was the girl's number, rather than anything actually case-related.

"He wasn't worth it," she responded to Sam's statement. "Though I probably would've broken his nose if you'd been sixty seconds later. Did you find anything?"

Sam grinned and accepted the change of subject. "Yeah, I'll tell you as soon as Dean's done being a whore."

"Who's a whore?" Dean walked up, smiling easily. "The bartender had nothing of use except her number, by the way." He flashed the napkin at his siblings with an ill-behaved smile.

_Called it._

"No one," Sam dismissed. "Luckily for us, I was slightly more productive than you." Ignoring Dean's snarky face pointed at his head, Sam leafed through Dad's journal in his hands til he found a newspaper clipping. "First victim, a banker named Ben Swardstrom. No obvious connection to Meredith at all, I already…"

Kate scanned the article, noting that Sam had gone very still.

"Sam?" Dean asked. "Hey, Sam." Kate looked up in time to see their little brother brush past them, headed across the room. She gave Dean a quizzical look that he returned with a shrug. They followed Sam's broad back to a nearby chair. There was a woman there, blonde hair chopped boyishly short, and Sam laid a hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

"Meg?" he asked. She turned. Recognition lit pretty features, and she stood with a smile.

"Sam? Sam!" she laughed, throwing her arms around his shoulders in an enthusiastic hug. Kate tensed inexplicably, fingers flexing, itching for a knife.

_What the hell?_

"What are you doing here?" the woman—Meg, apparently—asked.

"I'm just in town visiting friends," Sam lied easily. Meg looked around, confused, and her gaze lit on Kate and Dean.

"Oh, are these them?" she asked effusively, sidestepping Sam and sticking a hand out to shake. "Hi, I'm Meg!"

"Oh no, this is my brother Dean and my sister Kate," Sam waved a dismissive hand, and Dean grinned while Kate gave a curt nod. "What are you doing here, Meg? I thought you were going to California?"

She ignored his question. "Wait, _these_ are your siblings?" Dean's grin widened.

"So you've heard of us?" he asked, switching on the charm, and Kate suppressed a sigh. The man was incorrigible.

"Oh yeah," Meg answered, and her voice had an edge Kate decided she did _not_ like. "I've heard of you. Nice, the way you two treat your brother like luggage."

_Excuse me?_

"Sorry?" Dean asked, perplexed.

"Why don't you let him do what he wants to do?" Boy, this one was just chock-full of righteous indignation, wasn't she? Kate wanted to smack her. "Stop dragging him all over god's green earth—"

Sam was patting the air conciliatorily. "Meg, it's all right," he said, and the blonde piped down. Dean looked stunned, but Kate wasn't about to just sit back and listen to _that_ nonsense.

"What exactly do you think _you_ know about it?" she challenged, and Sam opened his mouth to protest. Kate sent him a scathing glare—_we'll talk about this later, little brother_—and he closed it again.

Meg noticed.

"That right there!" she griped. "You just shut him down like he's some sort of puppet, supposed to just do what you say just because you're older; and you know what? That's crap. You have no right—"

Kate stepped closer, getting right up in Meg's face. To her credit, the girl didn't back down, even though she had to tilt her head back to look Kate in the eye.

"I have every right. That look right there? That's a two-way street; I've gotten it from him before too. And you know what? It's none of your damn business how I interact with my brother—"

"Kate, please," Sam begged. "Just let it be."

"—and you should point all that pent up aggression where it belongs, little girl."

Meg's jaw clenched hard at that, but she said nothing. Sam took his life in his hands and stepped between them, throwing a pleading look over Kate's shoulder—at Dean, probably. Sure enough, a second later, a hand plucked Kate back and Dean's voice worked its way through the pounding of blood in her ears.

"Come on, Katie, let's go get a drink."

Kate let Dean pull her away, both offended at the girl's nerve and stung at the implications of what Sam had said about them at some point.

"What a bitch," she grumbled as Dean ordered them a couple of whiskeys.

"Hey, it's not really her fault," Dean said mildly. "She only knows what Sam has told her."

"Yeah, and she bases her opinion entirely on one person's perspective without getting the facts herself, then lays into those _she_ thinks are wrong." Kate sipped the whiskey, letting the burn soothe her ruffled feathers. "As I said, what a bitch."

Dean didn't answer, which she knew meant he agreed with her but didn't want to add to the conflict; so she quieted too and they drank in silence.

Kate did her best to ignore that it hurt, the evidence that Sam had maligned them behind their backs. She told herself he had probably been angry or hurt himself, and just vented on someone—heaven knew she sometimes felt like doing the same. But it still stung.

_Luggage, my ass. Treat him like a puppet. Please. If she only knew how many times that look has legitimately shut someone up in time to save their life…_

"Weird," Sam muttered as he came up behind Kate. "Seeing her here is _weird_."

"Who was that chick?" Dean asked. "And what was she on about? We treat you like luggage?"

Sam looked uncomfortable. "Look, I'm sorry Dean. It was after we had that huge fight, when I was at the bus stop in Indiana. But I'm telling you, something's off about this whole thing."

"Yeah," Kate muttered bitterly. "Our little brother bitching about us to random chicks is a little _off_."

"I said I was sorry." Sam said pointedly. "But I'm serious; it's maybe even _our_ kind of strange. She shouldn't be here. It could be a lead."

"Why do you say that?" Dean asked.

"I met Meg _weeks_ ago, literally on the side of the road, on her way to California," Sam said. "And now, I run into her in some random Chicago bar? I mean, the same bar where a waitress was slaughtered by something supernatural? You don't think that's a little weird?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know, man, random coincidence. It happens."

"Not to us, it doesn't."

Kate had to snort at that. "Sam's right, Dean. We should trail her, keep an eye out. See if she's just a random self-righteous stray, or if there's something more to her." Sam scowled at Kate, who stared right back. "I'm just saying," he spoke slowly. "That there's something about this girl that I can't quite put my finger on."

Dean smirked. Kate wondered if he could even help it. "Well, I bet you'd like to. I mean, maybe she's not a suspect, maybe you've got a thing for her, huh?" Sam laughed at that, and Kate took another sip of whiskey to help resist the urge to punch something. "Maybe you're thinkin' a little too much with your upstairs brain," Dean continued, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Do me a favor. Check and see if there's really a Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts, and see if you can't dig anything up on that symbol we found on Meredith's floor."

"All right, you little pervert," Dean laughed, standing to go. Kate knocked back the rest of her drink and stood too. She grabbed her coat and moved toward the back of the bar. "Where you think you're going?" her older brother called.

"To the _bathroom_, Dean, do you want to accompany me?"

He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and Kate stomped off.

_Men are idiots._

* * *

Brown eyes narrowed across the room as the pretty blonde stalked toward the ladies' room. She was clearly pissed about something, and he was simultaneously amused and concerned at the idea, wondering what the other two had done to earn such ire…

His spine snapped straight as his target moved, following the girl into the restroom. It was a smart move—isolate one of the kids, wearing such a disguise as she was, no one would even notice. He looked back at the two men chatting companionably by the bar and suppressed a growl.

They were _supposed_ to look out for each other.

John moved.

* * *

Dean looked at his watch, grumpily noting that Kate had been gone for seven and a half minutes. Before he could ask Sam if he'd seen her, his younger brother piped up, "Dean? Where's Meg?"

"Psh, beats me," he muttered, stopping short when his instinct tingled, his gut twisting. He looked up, searched the bar cursorily for their suspicious friend. "What the hell, Sam? You were supposed to watch her!"

He tensed, moving toward the cute bartender, Sam hot on his heels.

"Dean?"

"Kate's not back from the bathroom," he answered tightly, by way of explanation. It took Sam a fraction of a second to make all the same connections Dean had; and when he did, he blew out a breath as he switched to hunter mode so fast it would've been dizzying had Dean not made the exact same switch mere seconds ago.

The bartender flashed him a flirtatious smile as he neared, but Dean was _so_ not interested right now; he just nodded once and asked her, "Hey listen, sweetheart. Seen a tall blonde come out of the ladies' room in the last few minutes?"

The woman—Dean struggled to remember her name_. Carla? Cathy?—_frowned first in confusion, then in offense, and shook her head dismissively. "I'm a bartender," she said. "I haven't got the time to watch the entrance to the hallway."

"Please," Sam cut in, turning on the puppy eyes. "She's our sister."

Carla/Cathy softened instantly, looking to Dean as if for confirmation. He nodded, and she sighed.

"There are a lot of tall blondes in here tonight, fellas. I really can't help you. I'm sorry."

"I can," a gristly voice growled from their right. Dean turned to see a dirty, rumpled old man wearing red flannel and a tattered ball cap. The guy sorta reminded him of Bobby, honestly.

"Where did she go?" Sam was asking.

"Actually, she was carried out th' back door by a shorter blonde—pixie cut, kinda. Laughed and said her friend had had too much to drink."

"She talked to you?"

"Naw," the guy grinned, showing grimy teeth. "Watched from here, heard her tell someone else. The passed out one was slung over her shoulder like a sack o' potatoes. Had the sweetest ass."

Suddenly, Ball Cap didn't remind Dean of Bobby so much. Dean felt Sam tense—and practically growl—so he stepped forward, both to get between the guy and his brother and to passively threaten the man with his much-taller physique.

"Back door, you said?" he asked, allowing his hands to clench into loose fists at his sides. The guy nodded, leaning back instinctively. "D'you see which way they went after that?"

"Right," the guy answered quickly. "Toward the parking lot."

Sam cursed quietly behind him, and Dean echoed the sentiment inside his own head as they turned to go, making their way quickly through a sea of tables and waitresses and drunk people. If Meg had toted Kate out to the parking lot seven minutes ago, she could be _anywhere_ by now. He smacked Sam's shoulder with a growled, "Come on."

Dean kept a sharp eye on their surroundings as they made their way toward the exit, identifying and dismissing potential threats as he tried to figure out Meg's angle. Why would some random chick _Sam_ met on the side of the road a few weeks prior be interested in kidnapping their sister, anyway? What was she, some sort of psycho weird—

Dean jumped as his phone ranged, yanking it out of his pocket. His stomach dropped as he saw the caller ID.

_Dad._

"Shit," he muttered, then pressed the Answer button, ignoring Sam's insistent, "Dean? Who is it?" from behind him.

"Dad, hi," he said into the speaker, shoving open the door to the bar. It hit the outside wall with a loud thud as he and Sam strode out, into the cold Chicago night air.

"Dean, I'm following the demon that took your sister. I need you to—"

"_What_?" he shouted, stopping so abruptly Sam crashed into his back even as all the blood drained from his face. "A _demon_?"

"Yes," Dad started again, sounding annoyed. Sam had grabbed his arm when he ran into Dean, and his little brother's hand tightened painfully on his bicep. "She got snatched right out from under your nose by one of Yellow Eyes' top thugs. Good watchin' out for your siblings, there, Dean."

Dean couldn't mask the wince that twisted his face into a grimace, and Sam noticed. _Of course_ he noticed.

"Dean? What?"

"Where are they?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. It took more effort than he liked to admit. "We'll come. Sammy and I, we'll—"

"I'm on it. You and Sam go back to the hotel. That's what I need you to do. Stay out of it, stand down, wait for me."

"But Dad—"

"That's an order, son."

_Click._

Dean swore vividly, trying hard to resist the urge to chuck the phone at the nearest wall out of sheer frustration. Stand down? _Stand down? _He didn't usually hold with Sam's "Hate on Dad" cheers, but this was crossing the line—

"Dean? Talk to me, man!" Sam shook him by the shoulder, and Dean jerked away, trying to work past the tightness in his throat.

_Demon. Kate. Right out from under your nose. Great job, Winchester. Real top-notch work._

"Dean!"

"Meg's a demon," he managed. "She's got Kate, and Dad's hot on her trail."

_That_ shut Sam up. His brother went completely still, his hazel eyes wide under a fringe of bangs. At first Dean thought it was shock, but when he looked at Sam a little harder, he realized that the kid's wheels were turning—he was _thinking_. About what? What was there to think about?

"It's a trap," Sam said, as if having an epiphany. "It's a trap, Dean."

The pieces fell into place in Dean's head—it made sense. _A trap._

"But for who? Dad? Or us?"

Sam shook his head. "Does it matter? Where are they? We gotta go back Dad up." He started toward the Impala purposefully.

"Dad said go back the hotel," even Dean could hear how hollow his voice sounded. Sam stopped, turned back to face Dean, brows drawn. He just stared.

"Back to the—is he out of his _mind_? He wants us to sit this out? To just wait for him to rescue our sister and bring her back to us? _Maybe_? If he feels like it? He…aw hell, Dean, he blamed you, didn't he? I saw that face. The bastard told you this was your fault—"

"He's terrified out of his head, Sammy," Dean defended, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Give the man a break."

Shockingly, Sam dropped it, waving a hand in the direction of the bar. "It doesn't matter now, we'll address that later. Where was he?"

"He didn't say, we're supposed to—"

"Well we're not gonna."

_Yes we are gonna_, Dean wanted to say. He tried, really he did. He should do as Dad said, go back to the room-of-the-week and wait, not interfere with whatever plan Dad had in mind, he knew the rules, knew following orders was vital in situations like these, knew he had to…

He _couldn't_ leave her in the hands of a demon.

"You're right, we're not gonna," he said, brushing past Sam on his way toward his Baby. "Come on."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry** sorry_ sorry_ about the wait on this, y'all! Real life, man. It doesn't seem to care about my obsession with writing fan fic. Ugh.

Thanks so much to my partners in crime for all their support and willingness to hand out swift kicks in the rear when necessary: **Nova42**, **CornishGirl**, and **cfccfc**. Don't forget to go check out their profiles!

Reviews feed the muse, so maybe she'll stop going on benders and I can get some work done in a more timely manner!

Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

Kate was flung back to consciousness as quickly as she'd been thrown from it. It was disorienting; she woke gasping, arms jerking outward in the same desperate bid for balance as they'd been when she blacked out—

Or at least _tried_ to jerk outward.

Fuzzy-brained, it took her a moment to realize she couldn't move her arms, to register the rough feel of ropes around her wrists, the unyielding rigidity of stone (or concrete, maybe?) against her back.

"Ah, you're awake," Meg's smooth voice came from the shadows before Kate had a chance to blink the spots from her vision. She panted, trying to slow her breathing, to quiet her thumping heart so she could hear, could _focus_. "And just in time for the big climax, too. Your father should make his appearance any minute now."

They were in some sort of large...storage room? Floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall let in enough light for Kate to see lots of concrete—floors, walls, supporting pillars, one of which she was tied to—a large altar in the center of it, on which rested god-only-knew what kind of nastiness. She recognized black candles, a skull of some kind, an elaborately-carved goblet.

_My father? What?_

"What…" Kate wheezed. _Why_ couldn't she catch her breath? "What…are you? What d'you…want?"

"Two very good questions," Meg admitted. "That you'll hear the answer to in a moment, because John will obviously ask the same ones." She stepped out of the deep shadows, barking a word in some language Kate couldn't recognize. Following movement out of the corner of her eye, Kate saw her shadow on the wall to her right—with an inhumanly tall, crouched figure over her, massive clawed hands wrapped tight around her ribcage. The creature's wolfish mouth was bared in a snarl that looked like a smile and Kate felt a chill race over her skin. The pressure around her torso loosened fractionally at Meg's order, enough to send goosebumps up her arms as she realized what had murdered young Meredith, and probably Banker Ben too.

"You have a daeva," she said, tilting her head—partially out of curiosity, and partially to relieve the pounding in her left temple. She wondered vaguely what Meg had hit her with; it had obviously been enough to give her a mild concussion.

Unfortunately, Kate was all too familiar with the feeling.

Meg was staring at her, seemingly surprised she would know what a Shadow Demon was. Kate cracked a grin, going for Dean's patented _Snark The Bad Guys Into Submission_ method. "What? Didn't you know that's what they're called? Or are you dabbling in stuff way too big for you, little girl?"

Kate couldn't help the sharp intake of air as her head jerked to the right, her left cheekbone stinging with the force of the strike Meg had delivered, and her ears ringing against the pain. She blinked hard.

"_Stop_ calling me that," Meg hissed in her ear. "You have no idea who I am."

"You're right, I don't. You could just tell me," she suggested. Meg straightened, looked down at her, stepped back with a smirk.

"And ruin the surprise? What a shame that'd be."

"Perhaps," a voice came from the corner, behind Kate. Her heart thumped inside her chest in instant recognition, and she twisted, ignoring the way the shadows tightened painfully around her torso. "If we didn't already know who you are."

"John," Meg greeted amiably, but Kate refused to turn back around, jaw clenched against both agony and tears. She wanted to shout for her dad, but said nothing instead, knowing that they couldn't afford emotional displays at the moment.

When they got out of this, though…

* * *

"Kasadya," John greeted the demon who was Yellow Eyes' right hand. He was getting close now, he knew it, and the thought bloomed a fierce sort of anticipation in his chest; it was tempered, though, by the sight of his daughter bound to the pillar a few yards away. She was pale and bloody, blonde hair hanging limp and sticking to her sweaty face. She stared at him with such a painful combination of grief and hope that his breath hitched. He emerged from the shadows and walked smoothly to Kate, kneeling beside her and brushing damp hair out of her face as he checked her cursorily for injuries.

There were a few—claw lacerations at the juncture of neck and shoulder, more on her left thigh. They were deep, would need stitching, but she was in no danger of bleeding out just now. Still, rage coursed hot through his veins at the sight of his girl's blood, and the demon standing over her, smiling. "What'd you do to my daughter, bitch?"

"Tsk tsk," Kasadya tutted. "Now, John, that's no way to talk to a lady." She fiddled with the amulet around her neck, and John heard something crack. A blurt of agony escaped Kate's lips, despite her obvious efforts to hold it back, and she tossed her head back against the concrete miserably. A glance at the wall revealed the shadow of the daeva, which had wrapped itself around Kate's torso like a snake, grinning as its clawed hand raked slowly down her cheek. She whimpered as it left a deep cut from her temple to her chin. John's hands tightened in her hair while he looked up at Kasadya.

"Stop it," he said evenly. "I'm here to deal, no need to involve her."

The demon just kept grinning and made no effort to stop the creature. She seemed to consider for a moment before gesturing toward the daeva, which growled menacingly. It constricted viciously again, and John had to mask an outright cringe at the sound of bone crunching somewhere in Kate's chest. His daughter screamed, and John stood slowly, fixing the demon with a glare that had been the last thing several monsters ever saw.

"Dad," Kate gasped behind him, but he forced himself to focus on the threat before him. Hesitating now would get them both killed.

"_Stop it_, Kasadya," he commanded, calling on that deathly calm that had so often saved his life in this line of work. "You wanted me, you got me. Leave my kids out of this."

The demon laughed and waved her fingers lazily. John looked to the wall; the daeva squeezed once more, driving a pained cry from Kate's ravaged throat, before it unwrapped itself from her torso and melted into the long shadows of the dark room.

John took a deep breath. "All right, I will go with you. Quietly, even. Let her go."

"Ah," Kasadya adopted an air of false regret. "See, I'd love to, but I really can't do that." She sauntered closer, and John had to force himself not to retreat a step. "We can't have her too close to our young Sammy, see? She's far too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" The question escaped before John had a chance to pull it back. He cursed himself internally for revealing his lack of knowledge, conceding an advantage.

Kasadya favored him with an indulgent smile. "What, don't you know? Your pretty little girl isn't exactly kosher, John. In fact, she's almost as much a freak as Sam."

"Dad, help," Kate rasped from the floor, and John refused to acknowledge the way his heart thumped in response. Instead, he debated whether to ask Kasadya for clarification, a chance to figure out what was going on with Kate…

The opportunity passed when the demon continued. "Plus, we need Sammy nice and _isolated_. But your older boy, he's a pretty good guard dog, I'll give him that. We'll have to take care of him at some point; though if we play it right, we can probably get Sam to do it himself." Her grin turned feral.

John ignored the jibe, the implication that Sam would ever—_could_ ever—kill his brother. "If you don't let her go, we have no deal."

Kasadya laughed. "What makes you think I _need_ you to deal, Johnny-boy? I _have_ you already." She stepped right into John's space, mere inches from his face, and smiled. "You're not going anywhere. At least not of your own free will."

* * *

Kate bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, in a last-ditch effort not to scream. She couldn't afford to scream, she didn't have the breath to spare. Her right side, one of the big ribs halfway down, was on _fire_. The rush of warm wetness blooming under her shirt told her the bone had protruded through the skin, but what was more painful—and frightening—was the bone that _wasn't_ protruding. The other half of the break had been shoved inward by that inexorable pressure—_into her left lung_. She was trying to squirm at the same time she was trying _not_ to, her brain giving contradictory orders to _escape_ and to _minimize the agony,_ receiving nothing but blinding pain regardless of what she did.

The pressure that had released when the daeva left her was building again, but…different.

_Internal_.

Kate realized with a jolt of panic:

She couldn't _take a breath_.

"Dad," she gasped, but it wasn't near loud enough. "Dad."

Oh god, she couldn't breathe. Her chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it, bands of steel constricting her lungs and preventing the exchange of oxygen for carbon dioxide. Black spots dancing at the edges of her vision, shadows lengthening and twisting and reaching for her.

She made a conscious decision to try something Nat had mentioned last time she saw him.

Then, gentle pressure on her wrists, barely registering as she fought to inhale. A nearly inaudible snap, and she was free. Uninterested in the conversation between her father and her enemy, uninterested in anything but _oxygen_, Kate rolled onto her knees and elbows, curled in a vain attempt to apply gravity to the air sticking in her chest. There was a hand on her back, a voice shouting in her ear.

"Kate? Kate!"

Sammy, she vaguely recognized, but that was all she had time to think before his palm came down hard on her back, sending waves of agony through her torso. The scream he forced out of her was choked and far too soft. She was fighting to stay awake now, oxygen deprivation sending her brain into a stupor as she scrambled to find that power she knew resided in her soul.

_Come on, come on!_

"…'s wrong?" Sam was asking, curled around her on the cold concrete floor, hands roving as he attempted to triage her. His damp fingers found the compound rib fracture and he gasped in horror.

"Dean!" he bellowed. It was loud enough for Kate to hear clearly in spite of the fuzzy ringing in her ears. She shook her head to clear it. Something was happening; her brain was starting to itch like it did when she'd healed Dean. She twitched in Sam's arms.

Dad and Dean were mere feet away, maybe distracted by whatever Meg was doing, or maybe distracted by the daeva, but maybe not. And she couldn't let them see what was about to happen.

"Sam," she choked, trying with every fiber of her being to calm down, slow her heart, relax her muscles. Just enough to get a little air. Sam locked eyes with her, squeezed her right arm. Kate tasted something coppery and tried not to choke on the thick liquid.

Oh god, she was bleeding internally.

_Shit shit shit._

"Kate?"

Closing her eyes, she forced the words out into Sam's ear.

* * *

"Can't le'th'm…see," Sam heard, and he scrambled to try and keep up with Kate's reasoning.

"Can't let who see what?" he asked urgently. He needed to get her to a hospital—scratch that, they really needed to call an ambulance, he was fairly certain she had a punctured lung.

But Kate wasn't listening to him anymore, head tilted back and her face twisted in agony. Her mouth wrenched open as if to scream, but all that came out was a strangled moan as a blue light caught Sam's eye. He looked down and coughed out a blurt of shock.

The puncture wound was _glowing_. Bright tendrils of light seeped out of it, illuminating the blood and the jagged edge of a rib. Without thinking, Sam shifted so Kate's injury was pressed against his own torso and wrapped both arms around her smaller frame, his back to the fight going on behind him.

_God, let her be okay_, he prayed to no one in particular as the heat from…whatever was going on…seeped through his shirt. He cursed his timing; he and Dean had had to triangulate their father's position from a distant train whistle and the time of the call, and it had all taken far too long. By the time they'd arrived at the warehouse and heard the scuffle upstairs, followed by Kate's agonized scream, she'd already been injured.

One look at the carnage and the altar had told Sam they were dealing with some sort of demon—but Meg's amulet was something new. He'd never seen anyone summon or bind a demon of any kind with an _amulet_. Their dad clearly had the right idea, because as soon as Sam released Kate and Dean broke cover to attack Meg, Dad had gone for the amulet.

_Daeva_, Sam had realized in the instant before Kate stole his attention again; and now he was curled around her, trying to hide the fact that she had some sort of power that was healing a punctured lung. Whatever it was, it was working; he could feel her ribs expanding now as she sucked in air hungrily.

It was mere chance that led him to look up at the gray wall in that moment, just in time to see the somewhat-humanoid figure of the daeva standing over him, clawed hand raised high in preparation for a strike. He barely registered Dean's shout of his name.

Sam rolled, folding Kate into his arms as the daeva's claws raked down his back, burning. He shouted wordlessly against the pain as he landed a few feet away, clutching his sister while the creature slashed him again—bicep this time, and Kate got a bit of it when the long claws left his arm and met her side. She shrieked, but before either of them could do much else, a deafening crash sounded behind them and Dean hollered his own cry of pain.

"Close your eyes!" Dad bellowed.

Sam barely had time to acquiesce before light so bright it hurt his eyes filled the room. Belatedly, he heard the sound of a flare being struck, then Dad's booming voice again:

"Sam! Bring your sister, let's go!"

But he didn't need to _bring_ Kate anywhere. Eyes shut tight against the penetrating light, Sam felt her cold fingers close around his forearm, heard her ragged breaths near his right side.

"Come on!" he shouted as he got his legs under him. Kate didn't let go, her nails digging into his skin. Sam couldn't complain; the slight pain was a small price to pay in exchange for his sister being able to run out of there beside him.

They stumbled down the stairs blindly and out of the warehouse entirely. Sam heard Kate yelp as she tripped on something—Meg's limp body, wide brown eyes open and unseeing, a pool of blood testifying to the fall she'd obviously taken from the third-story window.

_Dean or Dad?_ he vaguely wondered as he pulled Kate along.

Out here, he could see his brother and his father, and he followed close with his eyes fixed on the leather jacket Dean always wore. Beside him, Kate's breathing was shallow and pained, but she didn't stop running until everyone did, across the street near the Impala.

"It was…a daeva…" Kate ground out, trying to catch her breath. "Have to…go…."

"She was controlling them," Dad added. "She's dead, and the amulet's destroyed. They're free now."

Kate looked up, blue eyes wild. "Exactly. Come after us…next…"

Dad shook his head, but whatever he planned to say next, he never got the chance. Sam didn't quite register what he was doing before he'd closed the scant distance between them and folded his father into a bear hug, head buried in the man's shoulder the way he used to when he was a kid in need of reassurance.

Dad didn't hesitate to return the embrace, and Sam decided then and there that none of their differences, nothing he'd said or dad had said or their stupid petty fights mattered; his father was here, was alive, and was the only one he knew who understood Sam's pain.

He wasn't the only one in their family who had watched the love of his life burn on a ceiling.

The thought tightened something in Sam's chest, making it hard to breathe. "Dad," he choked, barely aware he was trembling. Dad didn't say anything or pull back, he just held Sam tight.

"It's all right, son," he murmured so only Sam could hear, while the youngest Winchester worked up the ability to wall up those tears that were currently dripping onto Dad's shoulder.

"Jess," he whispered, heart breaking anew for his stubborn beautiful blonde, and the ring he'd never get to give her.

"I know, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

The embrace lasted several long seconds more, before Dad seemed to suddenly remember Kate's injuries. He pulled back, though he kept a hand on Sam's shoulder, and they turned to face Dean and Kate. She was leaning heavily against her bloodied older brother, holding still-tender ribs.

"Katie, we gotta get you to a hospital," Dad was muttering, attempting to pull her arm away so he could look. "That was a compound rib fracture, your lung should have been…how are you still _standing_?"

Her eyes were wide, like a deer caught in headlights. "I'm okay, Dad," she assured, letting him pull her arm away and lift her bloody shirt just enough to see the former injury. The skin was blood-smeared, but flawless where the break had been, her chest expanding and contracting as she breathed normally.

Not even a scar.

_Go on, tell them_, Sam encouraged silently.

"How?" Dad was asking. "The daeva—"

"I think it was an illusion," Kate answered before he could finish the question, and Sam resisted the very real urge to bash his skull against a wall in frustration. "Because I'm fine."

_Why_ wouldn't she just _tell_ them?

Of course, he of all people know how Dad could be—maybe Kate just wasn't equipped to handle an interrogation tonight. He wouldn't blame her.

"Your shirt is _soaked_ with blood," Dad countered. Kate just looked at him, blue eyes wide and glossy with unshed tears. The silence held for a beat, before Kate threw herself into Dad's arms, not unlike Sam had moments earlier.

Sam smiled when Dad's arms tightened around her.

* * *

For the first time in months, Dean let himself _breathe_. He was surrounded by his family, at last; Kate was in Dad's arms and Sam was beside him, leaning on his shoulder and trying not to be too obvious about it. Dean had just about had a heart attack when he saw the daeva's shadow standing over his brother and sister, but Sam was no idiot—they'd all managed to make it out fine.

His spine tingled unpleasantly. They needed to go, and _now_.

"Guys," he ventured, unwilling to interrupt the reunion, but he figured it'd all be meaningless if they were dead in the next ten seconds. "We gotta go."

Dad pulled back, held Katie's shoulders and looked her over once. There was something in his gaze Dean couldn't understand—and didn't like. It was reticence bordering on suspicion, and he couldn't think of one good reason why Dad would look at Kate like that. He shifted uncomfortably as Sam took Kate's arm and pulled her to his side, leading her toward the car. Dad turned his attention to his eldest.

Much as he wanted to hug the man, Dean said first, "Dad, you can't come with us."

Kate and Sam went instantly still, expressions ranging from shock to disbelief to denial—but Dean looked at Dad, who simply nodded. His younger siblings found their voices, tripping over each other in their protestations.

"What? No of course he has to—"

"We just found him—"

"He can't! We almost got Dad killed in there."

"Dad, please, you gotta come with us—"

"Don't you get it? They're never going to stop, Sam, they'll use us against him!"

"I don't care!"

"Stop." Dad's tone was final, the kind none of them ever argued with, not even Sammy. Dean's chest ached. "Your brother's right; it's too dangerous."

Kate cut in. "Dad, no; we need you!"

"No we don't," Dean said, almost hating it was true. "We can handle ourselves. And Dad's less distracted without us."

He felt the sting of the words even as he registered it on Kate's face. A distraction. Dad's kids were a _distraction_, a stumbling block in the way of getting the job done. Kate's eyes hardened, and she looked away, leaning into Sam as she gave up the argument. Dean wanted to reassure her, promise her that wasn't how he'd meant it—no, he wanted _Dad_ to assure her of those things. They'd mean nothing coming from him.

But Dad was pulling him into a hug that rubbed over several deep lacerations, prompting a pained gasp from the younger man.

"Look out for them, Dean," Dad was whispering in his ear. "And look after yourself, too, hear?"

Dean wrapped his arms around Dad's back, taking more comfort than he'd ever admit aloud in the warmth of his father's embrace. "Yes sir."

Dad pulled back, set his hand gently on the side of Dean's jaw and gave it a pat. "That's my boy."

Then he turned and walked away.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Shout outs to my girls **Nova42**, **CornishGirl**, and **cfccfc** for helping me nail this down how I want it and for inspiring me to write more every day!

Don't forget to leave a review or pop me a PM with your comments-I love your feedback!


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Just playing in the sandbox.

A/N: Forgive me, Readers, for I have sinned...my last post was...um...a really long time ago. I offer no excuses, only a new chapter and a promise to do better. Enjoy!

* * *

"Oh my god, would you just stay _still_?" Kate smacked Dean's good shoulder roughly, garnering a wince and a growl from her grumpy older brother. Sam brushed by her, carrying a couple of folded tee shirts while failing to stifle a grin.

"Maybe if you'd quit with the butchering act—_ahhh_—" Dean's venom degenerated into a groan that he bit the end off of even as he glared at her, daring her to acknowledge the fact he had just displayed how much pain he was actually in. She favored him with a smirk that came out more a grimace and went back to irrigating his ripped shoulder blade. The wounds looked rather more serious than Kate let on; deep, cruel lacerations dark and laced with pus, raised and inflamed. What worried her, though, were the tendrils of dark red that radiated outward from the wounds, following the lines of her brother's veins beneath pale skin. She took a deep breath.

"Maybe if you'd let me treat this two weeks ago when we dealt with the daevas, rather than insist you were fine and try to deal with this all by _yourself_, then it wouldn't have gotten infected, now would it?"

"Shut up."

"Of course, being slammed around by a vampire or two certainly didn't help—"

"Shut _up_."

"—And don't you smirk, Sammy, I saw what that son of a bitch did to you. You're next." Kate ignored Sam's longsuffering sigh from the other side of the room where he was throwing things in duffel bags, and poured more whiskey into the cuts on Dean's back, in an attempt to stymie the infection. She winced when his head dropped into his hands. This really did have to hurt.

Taking pity, she dabbed gently at the wounds, still swollen and now bleeding sluggishly along with all the white goo that told her his body was fighting and fighting hard to defeat this thing, and looked back at Dean's face, still buried in his palms, muscles taut against the agony. Shifting directly behind him so there was no chance he'd see, Kate called up a tiny sliver of her grace and sent it through her fingertips into the battered flesh of her brother's back. She'd pay for that later—probably a good few hours of puking up everything she ate for lunch or a low-grade fever—but it was worth it when she saw some of the tension leave Dean's solid frame. She hadn't healed him much, just enough so the pain was more manageable and the infection truly dead.

Sam saw, though, and raised a single brow. Kate ignored him.

The last thing they needed was for Dean to end up septicemic. Things were…_complicated_…enough, what with Dad having shown up, left, and then shown up again, now getting ready to leave them—again—and this new information about Samuel Colt's gun and how it would help them in their fight, and…

Kate sighed as she applied the last of the butterfly strips to Dean's shoulder blade—the wounds were healed enough to not need stitches, thank god—and applied long strips of gauze held in place by medical tape. While she worked, she talked softly; an ongoing stream of nothing-in-particular that would help soothe and anchor her brother.

"There. You'll be sore for a bit, and you'll have to let me take those off before you shower and reapply new ones when you're done, but you should be fine. We'll keep up with the antibiotic ointment and regular cleaning until I'm sure the infection is gone."

"Feels better," Dean muttered, sweaty brow resting on a hand. Kate crouched beside him, noting the gray tint to his skin.

"You don't _look_ any better," she remarked. He gave her a bitch face so potent it may as well have been one of Sam's, and she grinned a little. Dean tried to answer her with one of his own, but failed after a second or two and rested his head back on his hand again.

Kate's brow furrowed. "Dean?"

Fate smiled on her too-stoic older brother in that moment, for he was saved from answering her by Dad entering the room. As usual, his presence commanded all their attention, and the man nodded once.

He said, "So."

Kate cocked an eyebrow, knowing where this was going—she knew her dad—and unwilling to display any sort of regret or meekness regarding their decision to come back for him after cleaning out the vamp nest. It had been the right decision, and she'd do it again, a thousand times over.

"Yes sir?" Sam ventured.

"You ignored a direct order back there." Oddly, Dad didn't look angry at all; his expression was something else, something rare enough that Kate scrambled to identify it. His brow was furrowed, but in something more akin to concern than irritation; his stubbled face paler than she liked; dark eyes carefully blank.

"Yes sir," Sam said again, and Dean piped up a second later, voice like gravel.

"Yeah, but we saved your ass."

Kate's other eyebrow rose as she turned to regard her older brother; it wasn't often Dean talked back to their father like that. She noted similar expressions on both Sam's and Dad's faces before the older man smiled a little.

"You're right."

Both her brothers paused, confusion evident on tired faces, and Kate was sure her expression matched theirs. "I am?" Dean asked.

Dad nodded once. "It scares the hell out of me; you three are all I've got." He ran a hand over the rough skin of his jaw. "But I guess we _are_ stronger as a family. So...we go after this damn thing _together_."

Dean met her eyes, visibly shocked, and they both looked at Sam, who stared back with his jaw slightly slack. The siblings regarded one another for a long moment. Slack-jawed frowns turned to full-on grins as they turned to face their father.

"Yes sir," the boys chorused together. Kate laughed.

* * *

As was typical, the warm fuzzies lasted about as long as it took for Dad and Sam to be around one another for more than ten minutes. The drive to Iowa—following the not-so-natural phenomena that apparently pointed to the Demon's location—was almost a blur to Dean; his back was still throbbing and hot, Pastor Jim was dead, and Dad was sure the Demon had something to do with it.

His whole life, they'd been hunting this thing, preparing for this, and now that they were close, Dean almost wished they weren't—and kicked himself for thinking it. Dad had gone into super-military mode, tossing orders about and expecting them to be followed; a hard exterior with an undercurrent of desperation that made Dean nervous. Sam was already starting to question those orders, and it was only a matter of time before _that_ became an issue—perhaps an issue that got one of them killed, if it came at the wrong time. And Kate was quiet, the way she got when Dad was on the warpath. He'd never liked seeing it; it was far too contrary to the way she normally was, all ideas and enthusiasm and a fire he would never admit he depended upon to keep going.

He couldn't wait til this was over. He _needed_ it to be over.

Another hotel room, this one in Salvation, Iowa; and Dean was pouring a cup of crappy, cheap-motel joe for Sam in the hopes it would alleviate the residual headache from his latest vision. Kate sat beside their younger brother, small hand kneading his stiff neck muscles. Dad's next words were laced with accusation, and he was looking at Dean.

"All right, when were you going to tell me about this?"

Kate and Sam both stopped moving, looked toward Dad with ill-concealed surprise. Sam stayed still, though Kate's gaze snapped from Dad to Dean a few times, assessing, ready to jump in.

Dean tried for deflection. "We didn't know what it meant."

Dad didn't buy it, eyes narrowing, impatience in every line of his face. "Right. Something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me."

Kate stood abruptly at that, as Dean dropped the coffee and the mug on the counter, gesturing for her to back down. She obeyed, slowly, eyes locked on Dad.

"_Call_ you?" Dean asked, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? Dad, I called you! From Liv's, from Lawrence; Sam called you when I was _dying_." Their father had the grace to look slightly ashamed at that—Dean was still stinging that the man hadn't so much as returned Sam's message. He'd been fine in the end, true, but still. "I mean, getting you on the phone? I got a better chance of winning the lottery."

Dad opened his mouth, and Kate stood again. Dean held out a placating hand, but now _she_ wasn't having it.

"Stop it," she growled, blue eyes aflame. "It's not Dean's job to look after us, at least not his exclusively. We're not kids anymore. We grew up, in between the rawheads and the black dogs and the skeezy motels and the bizarre hunts. We take care of _each other_ now, and if you didn't get a call about Sam's visions, it's as much my fault as it is Dean's."

Dean thought that speech flagrantly inaccurate, but Dad just sat quietly for a second, seemingly stunned into temporary silence. Sam spoke up after a second, still rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Look, guys, visions or no visions, we know the Demon is coming tonight." Sam looked back to Dad, and Dean turned, moving back to the rapidly-cooling coffee. Kate came to stand beside him, grabbing a chipped mug and pouring some for herself. "This family is gonna go through the same Hell we did," Sam said.

Dad shook his head. "No they're not. No one is, ever again."

Dean saw Sammy nod as his phone chirped loudly and he fished it out of his pocket. Kate turned to him.

"Dad's in rare form," she whispered. He gave her a cocked eyebrow, but didn't have time to say anything before Sam's voice got his attention again. It was a tiny thing, just a small hitch in tone, a crinkled brow, but Dean was instantly tuned in and listening.

"Meg," Sam stated flatly into the phone. "Last time I saw you, you fell out of a window."

Kate had stood straight so abruptly her coffee sloshed onto her hand, burning her thumb. She didn't move, eyes hard and narrowed at the name of the demon who'd snatched her mere weeks ago. Across the room, Dad had stood and was moving closer to the three of them almost instinctively. Dean couldn't stop watching Sam.

"Just your feelings? That was a seven story drop."

Meg said something else, and Sam sat up straighter, gaze snapping to Dad, who stepped closer. Kate did too, and Dean grabbed her elbow—_no, stay back, they've got this_. She tugged free with a glare, but stayed put.

"My Dad?" Sam was saying. "I don't know where my Dad is."

But everyone—including the demon on the other end of the line, apparently—knew the jig was up. Sam hesitated, then handed the phone to Dad. Dean watched him, alert and wanting nothing more than to get his hands round that blonde's skinny little neck. Dad walked away from them—back to the kids, facing the danger, same as always—and said nothing for a while. After a moment, his shoulders hunched in just the smallest amount, and Dean noticed Kate take an abortive step forward as though to offer assistance. He turned to stop her.

Then Dad jerked slightly. "Caleb?"

Sam stiffened, Dean stilled, and Kate—well, Kate turned the most extraordinary shade of white, then rapidly bright red, stumbling forward again toward their dad.

"Caleb?" she asked loudly, smacking Dean's hands away as he reached for her and nearly tripping on the legs of Sam's chair. Dad gestured wildly at her, still speaking into the phone.

"You listen to me," his voice was low, dangerous. "He's got nothing to do with anything, you let him go."

Kate froze at Dad's words. Dean moved toward her, instinct more than logic affording the action. He forced himself to listen, strained to hear the other half of the conversation through the phone's tiny speaker.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Silence.

"Caleb?"

Kate sank slowly onto the bed—_probably would have gone straight to the ground had it not been there, _Dean thought—and Sam looked up at him. Dean knew. They all knew.

"I'm going to kill you, you know that?"

Dean felt his heart plummet into his stomach and barely managed to stifle his outward reaction, unlike Sam, who flinched outright at the practical confirmation of Caleb's demise. Kate didn't move. Dad started pacing, slowly, like a caged tiger.

"Okay," he said a moment later, then, "Okay, I'll bring you the Colt."

Kate barely registered the words over the sound of blood pounding in her ears. It made everything seem faraway and muffled, like she was hearing it underwater. One simple thought was all that she could really register.

_Not Caleb too. Not like this. _

_Please, not like this._

Dad was off the phone a moment later, talking with the boys, arguing; Kate struggled to check back into the conversation, shake off the rushing in her ears and the way her skin felt too tight for her face.

"…just going to hand Meg a fake gun and hope she doesn't notice?" Dean's incredulous question was the first thing that finally sunk in. She forced her too-heavy head up to lock her gaze on Dad's, panic blooming in her chest bare milliseconds before the hot rage did. It took her breath away.

"I'm coming with you."

Dad stopped and looked hard at her, eyes dark and mouth set in a thin line. "No, Kate, you aren't," he responded, deadly soft. Kate didn't know how it happened, but she found herself on her feet and in her father's face.

"I _want_ her." Her own voice was foreign to her ears, dark and low and dangerous. "I want that bitch skewered and left to rot at a Hellgate, just so they all know: she screwed with the wrong family. I'm going to—"

"I know," Dad interrupted, his hands landing on her shoulders, shockingly hot through her thin cotton tee. Or maybe she was just freezing; Kate was too numb to tell. "I know what you want, that's why you aren't going."

She felt her own face twist into an expression of hurt shock. _Mission first_, her mind supplied unhelpfullyhelpfully. The mission came first, and she _knew_ that, but she couldn't seem to snap out—

"Dad, you can't go alone," Sam said softly. "It's a trap, it's too dangerous."

Dad nodded, once. "You're right. That's why Dean's coming with me."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

Dean had never considered himself to be a particularly _good_ son, at least not in the ways most fathers thought of their sons as "good." It was true that he had practically raised his sister and brother, in the absence of their father; had picked up the slack John left behind, and had done so without question or complaint. It was true that he found himself playing mediator between the younger Winchesters and their father more often than not, possessing that ability to see his father's reasoning that so many eldest siblings develop—and so many younger ones do not. It was true he had protected Sam and Kate from all things evil as well as any brother possibly could; had patched up scraped knees and broken hearts; had stood between them and well-meaning adults who wanted to (or _did_) call Child Protective Services anytime something went wrong. It was true he had shed any dreams or illusions of normalcy at a ridiculously young age, replacing them with a cocky, bad-boy image that would make sense given the need to fight, lie, and steal to keep the younger ones fed and sheltered.

But Dean had never considered himself a very good son, because he knew, at his core, that his loyalty lay with them—with Sam and Kate—more than it did with Dad.

Worse, he suspected Dad knew it.

But that was why he felt absolutely no hesitation putting a hand on the man's elbow to get his attention while he packed the truck, after defending him to Kate and Sam's (well, more Sam's, honestly) passionate—_and loud_—protestations regarding his current plan.

"Dad, are you sure about this?" he asked in a low voice. He ignored the way Dad tensed and his eyes darkened, about to lay down the law the way he often did when he was sick of being questioned. Dean forestalled him with a single placating hand held in a gesture of surrender. "I know, I know the reasons, I get it. But this is the Demon we're talking about. _The_ Demon. And we're going to leave Sam and Kate to deal with it _alone_?"

Dad clenched his jaw, and Dean saw the minute flash of muted panic that haunted his father's gaze for a bare second before he got hold of it.

"Sam is the one with the visions, with all the information; he has to stay," Dad said slowly, as if convincing himself as much as Dean. "Kate would be worse than useless anywhere _near_ Kasadya right now; she'd get us both killed running the woman down." He met Dean's eyes again, brown to green, almost pleading. "I would go alone if all it meant was my death; that's nothing to me. But they would snatch me and use me against you three, and I'm not stupid enough to believe any of you are calloused enough to not respond to that. You, of all you kids, would have the fortitude to stand your ground even if they had me, but it would be hell."

Dean pointedly ignored the pit in his stomach at the image, and didn't voice his disagreement with that last statement.

Dad rubbed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, impatience and frustration—though not at Dean—showing in the jerky motion. "There's no right answer, Dean, and I know that. This is the least awful of a whole _slew_ of awful options."

It was at moments like these that Dean remembered why he admired—and trusted—his father so much. The man may have been an obsessed bastard at times, but he'd been dealt an impossible hand, and had done his best with it. He always did.

Dean nodded, placed a hand on Dad's shoulder and squeezed. "I get it, I do. Just wanted to make sure _you_ did."

Dad gave him a small smile, that one he'd shared with Dean so many times before leaving on hunts, when Sam was sulking or Kate was out walking, hurt and angst-ridden that Dad was leaving again. John would look down at his eldest, and say, "Look after them." And Dean would nod, seriously, maintaining eye contact to let him know he understood the order and all its implications, and John would smile that smile.

_That's my boy._

"I'm going to go say goodbye," Dean said, nodding toward the hotel room. "I'll be out in five."

Inside the dingy room, his brother and sister were both tense; their hugs a bit tighter, lingering, eyes barely masking fear and frustration and rage.

"Take care of her," he murmured in Sam's ear as they embraced roughly, and Sam tangled a hand in the back of his coat in response. His bangs hung in his eyes when they pulled back; he looked so _young_, that for a split second, Dean was sure he couldn't possibly leave him, leave _them_, not now. But Sammy swept his hair back, sharply, and when their gazes met again, his hazel eyes were hard and dark. He nodded once in response to Dean's admonition.

Kate trembled in his arms, and he held her longer, let her take deep stuttering breaths against his chest in an attempt to bring herself under control. Dean knew that Caleb's death had hit her hard; followed closely by the culmination of their entire existence—_The_ Hunt for _The_ Demon—happening that very night, and without Dad or Dean for backup? His sister was shaken, and Dean could hardly blame her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, holding her as tightly as he dared. She shook her head against his shoulder, the juvenile action making an unexpectedly sad smile spring to his lips. She used to do that as a kid, when she didn't want to go to bed.

_The cotton of his tee rasped as Kate's forehead brushed it repeatedly. "'M'not tired, Dean…"_

"Katie," he murmured, buried a hand in her hair to stop her. "I know what he was to you. It's okay."

She dug her hands into his back so hard it hurt. "Not now, Dean," she choked out, muffled against his leather jacket, and he dropped a kiss to the top of her head, respecting that. She needed focus now, not reminding of her grief.

"Don't you let anything happen to Sammy," he ordered as he held her at arms' length. "Or yourself, hear?"

She nodded, then swallowed hard.

"Don't die, Dean."

He pulled her hard to him again, unable—_well, unwilling, at least_—to stop himself.

"I won't. You too."

* * *

One of the less glamorous parts of an already-less-than-glamorous job was the stakeouts. Kate stared at a spot on the Impala's dashboard, wishing the young couple—the Holdens, she thought Sam had said—would finish their dinner and put their baby to bed. Was that bad, wishing for a monster to come visit an innocent family? Kate was too numb to care; though to be fair, it was less wishing for it to happen and more wishing it would _hurry up_ and happen—

"_You often think too much."_

_Kate blinked in surprise at the warm cabin room surrounding her. It took her half a moment of shock to realize she knew this place. The oil lamp burning on the rickety table nearby, the crackling fire across the room, the spiderweb in the window where she and Caleb had stood guard all that night while Dad and Dean recovered on the thin rug._

_But instead of two wrapped-warm-and-snuggly lumps, Nathanael stood in the middle of the floor, head tilted._

"_What the hell?" she mused. "Why are we here?"_

_Nat raised an eyebrow. "You were thinking of him, of this place, when I came to you. You are distracted. Given the enemy you are about to face, it is perhaps unwise."_

_Kate was speechless for a moment, the numb nothingness of the last few hours giving way to hot fury that robbed her of words temporarily. Nathanael said nothing, only looked at her with that same serene expression he always wore when they talked._

_She wanted to punch it right off his face._

"_Unwise?" she growled. "It's unwise to be unable to absorb what's happening around me right now, how quickly everything fell apart? Unwise to be facing down the horror of knowing that…bitch…killed Caleb? That's what you want to say to me? That I'm distracted, and it's unwise?"_

_The angel narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Yes. It is the truth, and it could prove fatal if you cannot—"_

"_I know!" she shouted through a clenched jaw._

"Maybe we could tell them there's a gas leak?" Sam mused aloud, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel restlessly.

Kate stared at him blankly for a moment, absorbing the chill of the air inside the car, the darkness outside, her brother in the driver's seat. Sam stared back, clearly expecting an answer. She cleared her dry throat. "A plan that, while logical, has served us well precisely _zero_ times," she countered, her voice flat and monotone to her own ears. Sam sighed, ceding the point.

"We could tell them the truth."

Kate didn't even dignify that with a response, only tore her gaze from the house—the couple were clearing the table now—to give him an incredulous look. It was the first real expression she'd worn since Dad and Dean left, and Sam gave her a small smile. She suspected he'd just succeeded in an effort to draw her out of her own head.

_You have _got_ to snap out of this, Winchester_.

She forced a grin back at him, and the tension in Sam's shoulders lessened visibly. Kate stifled a wave of guilt—she wasn't the only one hurting, here—and settled back into the leather with a huff of frustration.

"I hate the waiting worst," she remarked, without heat.

"Yeah, I think we all—"

"_I have come to relay orders," Nathanael said, back inside her mind. Kate let her head fall back against the cool glass, stifled the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose._

"_Orders?"_

"_From my superiors," the angel confirmed._

_It was Kate's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I thought you lot weren't supposed to be interfering down here."_

"_We aren't," Nat confirmed. "And for tonight, neither are you."_

"_What's that supposed to mean?"_

"It's almost weird, sitting here," Sam mused. Kate startled, clenching her fist to keep from looking around in confusion. The head-hopping was getting old fast. And Sam was staring at her.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Almost fell asleep."

He didn't look like he believed her, but continued his thought. "After all these years, we're finally here. It's..."

"Surreal," Kate supplied, and he nodded. Companionable silence fell again before Kate said quietly, "We can't think about it. We just do our jobs, like always."

Sam took a moment to answer, but when he did, he echoed her very thoughts on the matter.

"This isn't like always."

"I know."

He was quiet for another beat. "Do you think it'll stop once he's dead?"

Kate stared at him, uncomprehending.

"The headaches, the visions, your…healing abilities," Sam clarified, and her stomach clenched. "Do you think they'll stop once the Demon is dead?"

"_Tonight's events are preordained, you cannot participate in them," Nat was standing before her again, and Kate's patience snapped. _

"_Shut up!" She stood, even as the wind blew out all the windows and destroyed the old wood door, thunder crashing overhead. Nat took it all in calmly, looking around before meeting her eyes again. _

"_You are angry with me."_

"_Damn straight I'm angry with you!" she roared. "I'm having a serious conversation with my frightened, uncertain younger brother out there and you keep dragging me back in here to tell me I'm supposed to let him run into that house and confront that monster alone! You're insane, I won't do it!"_

"_Katharine—"_

"_Get out, Nathanael."_

"_I must warn you, if you go against Heaven's wishes in this—"_

"_I don't give a single flying crap what your superiors want." Kate said quietly, blue eyes flashing. "I'm not sitting this one out. Now get out of my head, before I throw you out."_

_Nat stared coldly at her. "You could not if you wished to."_

"_Shall we test that theory?" she challenged. "Out."_

"Katie?"

"I don't know, Sam," she answered, trying to ignore how frail her voice seemed. "I doubt my freaky powers are going anywhere, though I hope your headaches stop."

Sam said nothing, and when Kate looked over, he was studying her. Normally she didn't mind that look; Sam was insightful and wicked smart, and Kate was nearly always interested in what his brain managed to extrapolate from whatever his senses were telling him.

This time, though, she wished he'd leave it alone.

"Why?" he asked. She looked at him, confused again. "Why do you think your powers will stay?" he repeated.

She shrugged. "I don't know if—"

"But you do," Sam interrupted. "You do know what they are. And you know they're not related to Yellow Eyes at all, don't you?"

She said nothing, words getting stuck in her throat.

"Why would you let me believe we were alike if we're not?" Sam looked…_hurt_, and it made Kate's heart break afresh. "Why let me hope—" he stopped, taking a deep breath, as though it were a betrayal she had dealt him, and a devastating one at that.

"Sam," she moved, placing a gentle hand on his forearm and praying he wouldn't pull away.

She was interrupted by streetlights flickering outside. There was a beat; blue eyes met hazel. The radio crackled, static filling the car, and Sam breathed a single word before they were both stumbling into the cool night:

"Kate—"

For a moment, all was sensation: boots slapping the asphalt, her breath fogging in the air, grass under her feet bare seconds after leaving the car. She had just formed the thought to tell Sam to try carding the door instead of picking the lock—_it'll be faster_—when something slammed into her side. She barely had time to register the feeling of weightlessness before she hit the ground, landing hard on her wrist, something heavy crushing her a half second later. She felt something in her arm give, heard herself cry out, distantly. Felt something unyielding strike her jaw and realized it was a fist.

Struck back as she heard Sam shout her name.

* * *

The old warehouse was nothing particularly special—nondescript, like so many places the monsters they hunted chose to hunker down, meet up, build homes. Dean had seen hundreds of them in his lifetime, had explored their nooks and crannies, had brought their secrets to light and purged them of the evil that too often resided there.

So when Dad gave him the signal to hang back, he naturally took it to mean what it always did:

_Stay out of sight, son, and cover me._

Dad walked out into the middle of the cavernous room right at 11:59 pm, alert for any movement. Dean had worried, briefly, about whether they'd make it in time to ensure they both got out of this alive; but they had managed—though barely.

He lingered in the shadows, using every sense he possessed to try and locate Meg. He had wanted to try to take her out himself before she even got near Dad, but John had been adamant.

"She won't come alone, Dean. Don't make a move until we know what we're dealing with."

Always one to follow orders—_not to mention that plan made good sense_—Dean did as he was told, one eye on Dad while he moved silently through the outskirts of the warehouse room. All was silent, aside from the sound of dripping water from the northeast corner, and dark, except for the single bulb that illuminated the stark figure of his father not far away.

"Hello, John," came a warm male voice, echoed through the large space. Dean saw the speaker's shadow before he even stepped into the light, and trained his gun on it.

Dad hesitated for a moment. "What was wrong with your other meatsuit, Kasadya?"

The man chuckled. "Oh right, you half-blind humans. Can't see souls. Kasadya is my sister, and she hasn't switched meatsuits at all. I'm Kabaiel."

"I see," Dad responded, slowly. "And where is Kasadya?"

The man grinned.

* * *

Kate tried hard to sit up and got a mouthful of blonde hair for her trouble, as her attacker shoved her back down. She had only gotten a single, blurred look at the woman's face, but she already knew who she was dealing with. Biting back a whimper hard enough she tasted blood—her wrist felt like it was broken, fuckin' _perfect_—Kate curled up, made herself small beneath the woman's slight weight.

She kicked, and her booted foot met flesh and bone with a satisfying crunch. Above her, the woman screeched and rolled, giving Kate the opening she needed. But then Sam was there, fist flying toward a pretty face as he stepped over his prone sister.

"Sam!" Kate shouted, but his blow had already landed, leaving his opponent stunned in the grass while he turned his attention to her. He crouched, moving to help her up; but Kate shoved him off, cradled her left arm against her chest.

"Sam, the demon!" she hissed.

"But—"

"I got this, you go!"

"No, Kate—"

"Goddammit, Sam, you got _one_ shot at this!" She paused, seeing the truth of her words working at him. He wavered, then squeezed her shoulder roughly and was gone. Kate stumbled to her feet as fast as she was physically able, looked down panting at the blonde struggling her way back to consciousness. The woman groaned and rolled over, and Kate smirked when she blinked sluggishly.

"Hello, Meg."

* * *

"Where is Kasadya?" Dad asked again, his voice dropping, adopting that dark tone that usually made the monsters sit up and pay attention. This guy—_Kabaiel_—just smirked.

"She had…other business to attend to."

"More important than the Colt she's been killing my friends for?" Dad asked, incredulous.

"Well," Kabaiel explained, his tone neutral, almost good-natured. "The Colt is important to our father, so he assigned Kasadya and me the task of retrieving it. But the only thing Kasadya wants more than that gun, John, is you."

Dad's head tilted in a gesture Dean recognized as genuine confusion. "Then why isn't she here to collect me?"

Kabaiel laughed out loud this time, the sound sending chills down Dean's spine. "Because she doesn't want to _kill_ you, John. She wants to _hurt_ you. Over and over, she wants you to feel that greatest of agonies. So she's not coming for you. She's coming for your kids."

Dean felt his world contract to a pinpoint as his chest clenched painfully.

_Katie! Sam!_

"You _bastard_," Dad growled. "I'm not giving you the gun. I'm going to shoot your ugly face with it, and then I'm going to leave."

"I expected no less, really," Kabaiel picked at his thumbnail indifferently. "You already didn't follow the terms of the deal, did you, Johnny-boy? You think I'm stupid? You didn't come alone."

Dad froze, and Dean moved. His bullets wouldn't kill the thing, but they might slow it down enough for Dad to get away.

"Of course I came alo—"

"Drop the games, Winchester. Your firstborn is here, I've seen him."

Dean's heart stopped.

"It doesn't matter," the demon continued. "I didn't come alone, either."

He moved his finger to the trigger, but never got to pull it. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and everything went black.

* * *

"Aw, sweet Katie Winchester," Meg grunted as she stood. "That brother of yours has quite the hammer fist."

Kate almost laughed, fierce pride rushing through her veins for her hulk of a little brother. "Quite. Thought you were meeting up with Dad tonight?"

"Ah, but after I finished bleeding your friend Caleb—"

"Which I'm going to destroy you for, by the way."

"—I thought to myself, 'Self? You know the best way to torture John Winchester?'"

Kate roared her rage and rushed the demon, who sidestepped her easily, but still caught the sharp edge of Kate's knife in the gut. She staggered back a couple steps, yelping, and retaliated before Kate had time to catch her balance. The demon punched, sending Kate flying into the Holden's car in the driveway, adding the squealing car alarm to the general mayhem. Kate struggled to blink back the blackness encroaching on her vision as she worked to breathe past screaming agony.

Above them, the nursery burst into flames and a woman wailed inside. Kate's eyes widened.

"Sammy!"

"Oh, no you don't," Meg was right there, fingers closing tightly around Kate's throat as she lifted her clean off the concrete. Kate gasped, kicked, flailed, all to no avail. The demon wasn't letting go, and she was far stronger than a human the size of Meg Masters would ever have been. Kate whimpered in spite of herself as her sight began to dim; she hadn't actually wanted to go like this…

The pressure released, and there was a scream right next to her as she hit the ground. Through streaming eyes, Kate looked up to see a man with yellow eyes standing over Meg, who was crouching nearby.

"Funny meeting you here, daughter," the man said to the sniveling demon at his feet. "I was rather certain my orders were clear. You were to retrieve the gun from John Winchester _tonight_. No later."

"The gun is in our hands right now, father!" Meg wept. "Kabaiel—"

"Kabaiel was not ordered to get the gun. _You_ were."

"Father, please!"

"Tsk, tsk," the Demon tutted. "It's really too bad, Kasadya. You were to be my right hand in all of this, but…I can't have an insubordinate lieutenant running about, mucking up the works, now, can I?"

"But I—"

She never got to finish her sentence, as the Demon placed a hand over her forehead and black smoke poured from Meg's mouth, seeped into the ground as Kasadya was sent screaming back into Hell. The Yellow-Eyed Demon looked down at the charred grass and sighed. Then he turned to Kate, who suddenly wished she was literally _anywhere_ else; anywhere but backed against a car with no weapon before the greatest enemy her family had ever known.

"Shame," Yellow Eyes said conversationally. "It's hard to find good help these days. Now you, young one," he grinned and leaned in so his face was mere inches from hers, and Kate shuddered. "You are something altogether different, aren't you? A small threat to my plan, for sure…but killing you outright would do nothing to help me with Sammy. He's my favorite, you know."

Hearing that monster speak her brother's name so familiarly, as though he _owned_ Sam, lit a fire in Kate's veins. She clenched her jaw and ground out;

"I won't let you touch him!"

Yellow Eyes smiled indulgently. "Oh how..._poignant_. So protective you are. Don't worry, I won't hurt him. I'm rooting for him, in fact!"

Kate never got to ask what exactly he was rooting for. A shout came, one she recognized, and Kate looked up to see Sam in the doorway, aiming the Colt straight at Yellow Eyes. She heard a cold laugh, and turned to watch the light leave his evil eyes…

But he was gone. She gasped, wincing at the pain of it, and yelped when Sam went to his knees before her. There were people standing around—the Holdens, neighbors, onlookers—and Kate knew they needed to get out of here. Sam was bleeding from his nose and ears, and Meg, fully human again, was stirring weakly nearby.

"Sammy, get us away from these people," Kate rasped through a clenched jaw. He helped her to her feet before lifting Meg's broken body into his arms. The girl whimpered breathily in response, and someone shouted at Sam, "Hey! You shouldn't move her!"

"We're taking her to get help!" Kate retorted, and ignored shouts of protest as they moved to the Impala quickly, Kate sitting in the back with Meg's head on her lap. Sam looked at her from the driver's seat.

"Where to?" he asked softly. She placed a hand on his temple and breathed some of her grace into his head, soothing the bruise on his brain—a nasty concussion—and taking a deep breath against the pain of using her power while she was injured herself.

"Anywhere but here," she answered, setting to work on Meg. Before she got far, her phone rang shrilly. She flipped it open and tried not to sound _too_ half-dead.

"Dad?"

"Get to Bobby's," Dad said, and then hung up. Kate raised a brow as she tossed her phone to the floorboards, turning her attention back to the broken girl in her backseat.

"Bobby's, Sam; Dad says Bobby's."

The drive was a blur to Kate; she managed to heal Meg enough that the young woman would survive without requiring medical attention, but that was as far as she got before her body's own reaction caught up with her. They spent the last half of the drive stopping every thirty miles so Kate could throw up. By the time they pulled into Bobby's driveway, kicking up gravel and dirt, she hadn't spit up more than bile in two hours, Meg was pale and sweating, and Sam was exhausted.

"Where are we?" were the first words Sam heard from Meg, as _herself_. He was shocked how different her voice was, softer and a little higher, nothing like it had been when she was possessed.

"A friend's," he answered, hoping not to spook her too badly. "We'll introduce ourselves properly as soon as we're inside." He levered a barely-conscious Kate onto her feet, ignoring her slurred protests that she was fine, she could manage, what was Dad going to think if he saw her like this?

"I know who you are," Meg said quietly, limping toward the house beside him. Sam shuddered at the realization of what this woman had been through. He was sure she would need help adjusting, and only hoped Dad didn't try to boot her back into regular civilian life.

There wasn't really any way to come back from that kind of possession, he didn't think.

Bobby met them at the door and held it wordlessly, which was Sam's first clue something was up. Bobby hadn't seen them in ages, and was always shamelessly affectionate with all three of the Winchester kids, in his gruff sort of way. The lack of greeting made Sam's hair stand up. But he shuffled his drooping sister past the older man and into his living room. Dad stood quickly from the couch, striding over to them and folding both of them in a suffocating hug.

Sam couldn't hold back the laugh of relief—_they'd made it!_—and hugged his father back. "God, Dad, we were so worried."

"I know," Dad whispered back, slapping him on the shoulder as he pulled away. Something in his face wasn't quite right; pinched and gray. "What happened to your sister?"

"Yellow Eyes," Sam answered, hoping it'd be enough for now. "Where's Dean?"

What color was left to John Winchester drained from his cheeks, and Sam felt his heart drop into his stomach. "Dad?" he questioned. Kate was forcing her head up, sensing the change and knowing something was wrong. "Dad, where's Dean?"

Dad shook his head.

* * *

**A/N: DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNN! **Cheers to my SPNsters, Nova especially, for their help and encouragement.

Don't forget to leave a review! My muse loves them like Dean loves pie.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

"You _left_ him there?!" Sam shouted, and Kate winced as the pain in her head reached new, _screaming_, levels. Her skin felt too tight to contain her bones, her ears fuzzy and vision dark while she tried to maintain consciousness; but all that took a backseat to the absolute terror that was crushing her heart and lungs, making every breath a strain.

She _really_ needed to sit down.

"Sam," she grunted as her knees finally gave. He took her weight easily, lowering her to Bobby's old, tattered couch. Dad moved to help, and received a fierce growl from his youngest son for his efforts. Kate shoved Sam off weakly, forcing her eyes to remain open and fixing her gaze on the older man.

"Wha' happen'd, Dad?"

John knelt on the hardwood, gathering her freezing hands in his warm ones. The heat hurt her over-stimulated nerves, but Kate resisted the urge to pull away—Dad was getting enough grief from Sam and would misinterpret the gesture. Instead, she entwined their fingers and squeezed. Dad swallowed.

"Kasadya wasn't there," he said quietly, and Kate jerked her head toward the other side of the room, where Bobby was supporting the shell-shocked blonde who had served as her host for over a year. The girl looked a little worse for wear, pale and limp, barely pulling together a nod toward the older Winchester.

"She came to kill us," Kate rasped. Dad's eyes widened, and he stood so fast he almost dragged Kate off the couch entirely. She coughed, swallowing a moan as red-hot agony echoed through her nerves at the rough treatment.

"That's not her, Dad!" Sam had their father by the shoulders and was shaking him roughly. "That's Meg Masters, the _human_! Dad!"

Dad finally seemed to get it, settling slowly and blinking hard. "H-how?" he stuttered.

"Yellow Eyes," Kate panted, forcing her breathing to settle. "She was supposed to get the Colt from you. He sent her back to Hell for disobeying." She closed her eyes, gathering her focus. Reaction to the use of her Grace, and to her own wounds, was well and truly set in; she felt feverish and sick, and knew it was going to just get worse for a few hours. She couldn't even spare a single longing thought for the lumpy bed in Bobby's guest room, though. "Dad, _Dean_. What happened to Dean?"

"Some demon, called himself Kasadya's brother, Kabaiel. He was there, and he brought back up," Dad answered, letting go of Kate's hands to collapse into the nearby rickety wood chair. The piece of furniture creaked in protest, but no one really noticed. Sam sat gingerly beside Kate. "I told Dean to hang back, provide cover, but they…" Kate's throat closed up as Dad rubbed a hand over his stubbled face. He looked old and gray. "They got to him before I could warn him."

Silence reigned until Sam spoke again, his voice cracking. "You shouldn't have left him."

Kate squeezed Sam's arm to the point she knew it hurt, torn between feeling exactly as he did and knowing that Dad really hadn't had another option. The older man stood, eyes blazing.

"I had no choice, Sam." Dad's voice was soft, tightly controlled. Dangerous. "The bastard told me they were going to keep him as collateral until I returned with the real Colt, that they'd kill him if I—"

"You could have tried!"

"I would've died!"

"Better you than him!" Sam roared. Complete silence rang deafening in the suddenly-stifled room, and Dad sat heavily. Kate forced herself to her feet.

"Both of you," she forced out, voice low and menacing enough that Dad and Sam looked up in surprise. Kate took a breath, letting her rage show deliberately in her tone. "_Both_ of you, _stop it_. None of this will save Dean, and _that's_ what matters here. You can lay blame and fight like children _later_." She looked up, found Meg's hazel eyes across the room. The woman pulled herself up a little straighter, brow furrowed. "Meg, do you remember where the demons are holed up? Where they may have taken our brother?"

A muscle worked in the woman's jaw, and what color her face had gained in the past hours paled, but she nodded. "I remember," she murmured. "Sunrise Apartments in Jefferson City." Her eyes widened and her throat worked around a sob. "Please don't make me go back there."

Kate shook her head. "No, no, we won't. We just need to know everything you can tell us about the place."

"And the demons inside," John piped up, standing again. His composure was firmly in place, Kate noted with approval. This was John the hunter, not John the father.

_This_ man could help them save their brother.

* * *

Sam forced his fingers to relax around the steering wheel, deliberately loosening muscles taut with a heady concoction of fear, anticipation, and fury. Dean would've busted his ass for holding too tight to his Baby if he were here.

The thought tightened something painful in Sam's chest.

_Dean._

After Jess had died, he had thought all he wanted was revenge—to rip to shreds the demon that started it all twenty-two years prior when he burned Sam's mother on the ceiling. Vengeance was like a drug, like caffeine and alcohol and speed all rolled up into one lethal combination, keeping him moving when he wanted nothing more than to shut down and break.

But _this_?

Dean captured, maybe dead, definitely in pain and probably being tortured? This was so much worse. Sam didn't give one single shit about _revenge_ right now, or _hunting_, or _the family business_, none of it.

He just wanted his big brother back.

Beside him, Kate stirred, sighing and sitting up from where she'd been leaned against the cold window. She rubbed her eyes and moaned, stretched as much as the seat would allow.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked, knowing how using her abilities wiped her out. It had taken them ten minutes to develop this plan after Meg told them where the demons were, and Kate had practically collapsed against him when they headed up to the guest room directly after to prepare. Dad had ordered a good night's sleep after all the weapons were cleaned, the blades sharpened, and _'all your shit's in order, kids'_, but Sam had shoved Kate into bed—with his pinky finger, because she was _that_ weak on her pins by then—and told her he'd take care of her gear if she'd just do him a favor and quit looking like a dead person.

She'd slept twelve hours, waking just in time to shower and dress and stumble out the door, before promptly falling asleep again in the Impala. That had been six hours ago.

"'M fine," she croaked. Her voice sounded like someone had run it over with a truck. Repeatedly. She coughed and took a swig of the water bottle Sam had grabbed for her on the way out Bobby's door, before trying again. "Yeah, I'm good now."

"Awesome," Sam responded, deliberately loosening his fingers again. They were beginning to ache. "We're about two hours out."

Kate nodded, and they were silent for a moment.

"Are you ready for this, Sam?" she asked a second later. His jaw clenched painfully, a tension headache growing behind his eyes. He looked at her.

"I just want Dean, Katie."

She nodded again, fierce. "Good. Because we don't need any personal agendas or random individual wars in there. We need to get Dean and get out." She softened when he nodded, swallowing a choking sound that could have been a sob. Maybe. "It's going to be all right, Sammy. We'll get him back."

"But after they've done _what_ to him?" Sam asked, voicing his real fear for the first time. Demons were evil, barbaric things.

Kate squeezed his forearm. "Dean is strong, stronger than either of us. He'll be fine."

* * *

Dean was pretty sure it was impossible to hate any being more than he had always hated Yellow Eyes, for his sins against both Dean's family and humanity in general. But this guy—whom Dean had dubbed 'Turd', _That Uppity Random Demon_, and it had pissed Kabaiel off so thoroughly as to be highly entertaining, despite the agony still echoing through his body from the resulting beating—this guy, Dean was sure, he hated at least as much.

He had spent his life meeting all manner of Bad Guys, from vamps to werewolves to wendigoes to spirits and ghouls. Some were hungry, most were angry, but none of them liked being what they were.

Only demons.

And Kabaiel was the worst of the lot. Sure, Kasadya was a smug little bitch, but Kabaiel was _evil_. And proud of it. He spent the first few hours in Dean's head playing a loop of images so horrific, things he—_Kabaiel_—had done, and relished doing; things to women and kids that made Dean's skin crawl.

Or would have, if Dean had had control of his own frickin' _body_.

Next came the manufactured images; things that hadn't happened—_yet_, Kabaiel swore—but fears that the demon managed to wrest from the deepest darkest corners of Dean's head and play on his own personal mental big screen. He forced Dean to watch Dad torn to pieces, Katie screaming for him bloody and beaten, Sam with black eyes and a malicious smile that should never have appeared on his little brother's face.

_Would_ never appear on his little brother's face.

Kabaiel laughed at his certainty.

"You really have no idea what kind of poison passes for little Sammy's blood, do you, boy?" he taunted. "Exactly what kind of freak your baby brother is?"

"Shut up," Dean said tightly; though trapped as he was, in his own head with a demon, he was pretty sure there was no way he could _force_ Kabaiel to stop anything.

"Aw, now, don't be like that. The fun's just starting!" The demon's grin turned nasty. "Because you got Sam representing one side of this thing, Kate the other, and you—poor, useless Dean—stuck right there in the middle."

Dean felt his brows come together in confusion before he could carefully wipe his expression clean—it wasn't so easy to hide his thoughts and feelings inside his own head. Kabaiel laughed and clapped his hands like a child.

"You don't know about Kate, either? That's just incredible; even your _father_ knows something's up with her, though he has no idea what. And he's never even around!" He chuckled. "You really are the idiot child, aren't you?"

"You're the…idiot child," Dean muttered, brain cycling fast through the past months and all the oddities he'd noticed—and largely ignored, if not dismissed entirely—about his sister's behavior. The weird zone-outs, the nightmares, the ability to oust a demon from her own body—which was clearly, and disappointingly, not a family trait—the strange and sudden illnesses that left her bedridden and then good-as-new within a day.

"She's got the angel juice, Sammy the demon power shake," Kabaiel revealed slowly, as though relishing the opportunity to screw with Dean's head.

_Demons lie, demons lie._

"I am not lying," Kabaiel seemed to read his thoughts, shaking with mirth. "Why would I _fabricate_ torture, when reality is so very effective?"

"I—" Dean started, but then Kabaiel smiled again. Dean felt his body relax against the bed they had him tied to, and he reflected vaguely that he'd never _ever_ get used to the sensation of his physical form doing something his brain hadn't commanded.

"Shhh," the demon interrupted. "Show's about to start."

* * *

Kate nodded once to Sam as they approached the door number Meg had given them as the demons' hideout. The apartment was on the fourth floor of the old building, in a narrow hallway painted white and framed by big windows on either side. It was really a cheery, open place, and not the kind of location in which you'd expect to find evil creatures holed up; but Kate imagined that was part of the appeal. She ignored the pit in her stomach, praying that their mission would be successful, but quietly so. The last thing they needed was cops showing up for a "domestic dispute" and getting caught in the crossfire.

They didn't bother with knocking or any other sort of pretenses; Kate leaned against the wall, holding her Ka-bar surreptitiously behind her and keeping watch down the hall while Sam bent to pick the lock. She counted the seconds it took him—a leftover habit from when they were younger and Dad would have them measure every aspect of a hunt in order to review it later and see what could have been done better.

Seven seconds, and the lock clicked. Kate didn't give the demons inside a chance to wonder what the sound was before she burst through the door, Sam hot on her heels.

To see nothing.

Kate blinked. There was no one in the bright living room, or the cramped, clean kitchen; both were easily visible from the doorway. Sam moved in front of her, gun at the ready as he made to clear the small apartment. Kate checked the number on the door quickly—_420_, just like Meg said—and, shrugging, followed. The tiny hall and bathroom were empty, as well, but the bedroom door was closed. Sam held up three fingers; counted down to one before bursting through and pulling up short so fast that Kate ran into his solid back.

Before she could do more than grunt in protest, she felt all the air leave his lungs in a rush, a single name flowing from suddenly-white lips:

"_Dean."_

Kate's stomach flipped and she practically shoved Sam aside to get a look. Dean was lying spread-eagled on what had once been a clean mattress. Now it was caked with old, brown blood, liberally streaked with newer scarlet—Kate shuddered at the implications of that—and torn. Kate felt her own breath stop at the sight of her older brother, unconscious and far too still. His face was swollen in places, decorated with bruises and lacerations that had obviously been made with a large blade; his arms coated in red, one elbow sticking out at an unnatural angle that made her wince. His over shirt and tee were ripped, revealing more lacerations and the beginnings of some pretty spectacular bruising. She was willing to bet there were busted ribs and maybe some internal contusions as well in that mess on his torso.

"Dean," she murmured, shouldering past Sam and kneeling beside him, hands touching the air around him as though afraid she'd hurt him just by being close. She finally settled for gentle fingers in his hair and one hand resting over his heart, where the demons had kindly carved an 'x' with some sort of jagged knife. "Keep watch for a sec," she ordered tightly, biting back the urge to kill something.

"Kate, you just did this with Meg, you're not strong enough to—"

"I am, and I will. Just make sure we don't get jumped for like, five minutes."

"I don't think this is a good id—"

"I'm not _asking_, Sam." And then she went to work.

Or tried to; she'd barely accessed her Grace when Dean lurched out from under her hands with a roar, tossing her effortlessly over the nightstand and into the corner. He broke the chains holding him to the bed without even trying and jumped Sam, leaving Kate in a startled heap on the carpet.

Years of training had her back in the fight before her ears stopped ringing, before her rattled brain had even consciously figured out what was going on. Adrenaline masked the agony behind her eyes and in various other places on her battered body, turned it into a low-level ache that had her limping but on her feet as she staggered toward her wrestling brothers. Dean had Sam on the floor, thighs bracketing his hips as he punched him over and over. "Dean!" she shouted, voice cracking.

She'd seen them fight before, but never like this: they both pulled their punches during training, and even downright pissed, Dean had _never_ looked at Sam with intent to kill, never hit him hard enough that something—Dean's knuckles, or a bone in her little brother's face—cracked loudly.

But this wasn't Dean. She knew it like she knew her own name; it wasn't her brother calling the shots. The realization pissed her off, gave her strength.

"Hey!" she bellowed, angry enough not to hesitate when beetle-black eyes met hers over a leering grin, Dean's body poised over a weakly-struggling Sam who was now bloodied and beaten himself. Sam coughed as a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and Kate growled. "Leave him alone, you bastard."

Dean smiled, showing scarlet-smeared teeth. "Make me, sweetheart."

Kate lunged for him, but not to punch. Instinct sent her hand to the nape of his neck, and she yanked his forehead to hers, one hand blocking a distracted punch as the demon tried to recover from the shock of her attack, or lack thereof, while they tumbled to the carpet. He wasn't given the chance; there was a flash of bluish light, and Kate yelped as Dean's pain flooded her body.

What was going on, she had no idea, but she thought on a hunch. _Dean?_

She nearly smiled when she _sensed_ him answer, almost heard it in her own head: _Katie? What the hell?_

Dean's fist met the side of her face, and she saw stars, but refused to let go of his neck though her head snapped to one side, breaking the connection between their foreheads. _Fight him, Dean! He's going to kill Sammy!_

_I can't make him stop!_

_You can! I'll help you._

"I don't think so, little girl," Dean's physical voice was lower than usual, too languid and full of more hate than her brother even knew how to possess. The demon grinned again, yanking back and grabbing her wrist, twisting it painfully to one side with the clear intent to break it. Kate opened her mouth to cry out, but then Sam was there, wrestling Dean's arm loose, and she latched onto the back of his neck again. His voice filled her head, his near-panic almost palpable.

_Katie!_

She growled low in her throat, _willing_ her Grace into Dean's body as though to heal him. The result was instantaneous; Dean's body jerked and his throat closed on a shout of pain. Black eyes flashed green again, and he began to cough; great, choking hacks that expelled black smoke onto the abused carpet.

_Yes, Dean, fight!_

The demon inside dug in its heels; Kate felt it in the way Dean's spine locked up, in the cry of agony she felt and heard, in the burning that raced through her nerves, a mere echo of what Dean felt. They stayed that way, at an impasse, two Winchesters versus Yellow Eyes' right hand man, for another minute before something finally cracked. Kate gasped at the blinding agony that erupted in her chest. She opened streaming eyes to see black smoke surging into the floor, charring it as the demon was sent back to hell, screaming.

Kate sucked air into spasming lungs when it was over, collapsing onto one side and shoving Dean's heavy, limp form off so she could breathe. Her ears were ringing, but she could hear Sam nearby, calling both their names, his panic rising each second neither of them answered. She levered herself up onto an elbow, still panting.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's over, he's—"

"Kate, he's not breathing!"

"What? Of course he's breathing…" she laid a hand on his chest, heart skipping when she felt nothing; not the rise and fall of breath, stuttered nor steady, not the thump of his heart, nothing.

Her world narrowed to a single point of shock.

There was _nothing_.

"Dean!"

* * *

**A/N: Hey, how about** that Season 11 premiere, huh? I think we're in for quite the roller coaster this year, guys. Special thanks to my SPNsters for their support and for fangirling with me; Nova42 and chrissie0707 for their mad kick-in-the-pants skills, cfccfc and CornishGirl for not giving up on me when I'm SLOOOOOOOOOW to churn out new words.

And thanks to all of you who read this story! You're all amazing! *passes out cookies*

Don't forget to review! Reviews are like crack for my muse.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

It was three-twenty-seven on a Thursday afternoon when Dean died.

Kate knew Sam was talking to her, or…saying something, at least; her brother was staring down at Dean, cradling him in his arms and moving his lips as he cried. He was rocking back and forth, pressing Dean's pale face into his palm as though trying to force himself to believe he was really gone.

Maybe he wasn't talking at all. Kate couldn't tell. Her ears were stuffed with cotton, her brain refusing to accept what was right in front of her.

Dean was dead.

No.

_No._

He'd been too much a part of her to be gone. Dean was light, was life; movement and resilience and joy in spite of what they did for a living, what they saw on a daily basis. He was her protector, her friend, her constant, her _brother_.

And she was sitting here on the blood-soaked carpet, eulogizing him in her head. The thought hardened something inside her, choking off her grief and mobilizing her to action.

_No._

_This isn't how it ends._

She stood, distantly shocked her watery legs would support her, and turned to leave the room. Sam called her name, and it might not have stopped her but for the tone of his voice—all vulnerability and heartbreak. He sounded like someone had destroyed his heart. Kate almost stumbled to her knees again from the pain of it, but somehow she pasted on a small smile and turned back to him.

"Stay with him, Sammy. I'll make it okay."

Sam stared at her, and she left before he had a chance to protest. Numb feet carried her through the bright hall, into the stairwell, down down down into the basement. Somehow she found the boiler room. Instinct told her Dad would have come here to summon and distract the Demon with the Colt while she and Sam rescued Dean.

Her breath hitched at the thought. All she could see were Dean's green eyes, staring sightless at the ceiling five floors above her.

_No._

Quiet voices led her to the east side of the boiler room. A single window near the top of the wall spilled weak light onto the concrete floor, where she saw the conjuring spell laid out, bronze bowls of herbs and black candles and white chalk. Dad was standing there, and a man with yellow eyes before him, smirking. Kate felt a tremor run through her entire body at the sight of him.

_Dean._

"You bastard," she nearly choked on the words, to her shame. Both men looked up, yellow and brown gazes fixing on her face as she took three more steps into the room. Dad's eyes widened—this wasn't in the plan—while Yellow Eyes just smiled wider.

_Dead._

_He's dead._

"Kate?" Dad was paling fast, looking anxious enough to drop his tough-guy façade in front of the bad guy in favor of figuring out what was ailing his daughter. But Kate didn't even see. All she saw was yellow eyes and a leering grin.

"You fucking _bastard_. Bring him back, right _now_!" Kate took what was supposed to be a threatening step forward. She wasn't sure how well she succeeded at _threatening_, since she was shaking, could feel the tremors in her hands and face as she struggled to maintain a modicum of control.

_Dead._

The demon tilted his head curiously. "Your brother, he…ah," a look that strayed dangerously close to glee crossed his features. "He's very much not you, eh? Not so much luck evicting my son from his body, how unfortunate."

"Oh, your son is gone," Kate snarled. "Sent back to Hell kicking and screaming like an infant."

She meant to goad him, but Yellow Eyes didn't take the bait. He refused to blink, just held her eyes and asked serenely, "You didn't know we could kill our hosts on the way out?" The Demon continued, cheerfully. "Poor Dean."

Dad made a strangled noise somewhere in the background, but all Kate was aware of was the red at the corners of her vision. With a roar of rage and grief, she charged the Demon, Ka-bar raised uselessly.

_Dead._

Two steps. That was as far as she got before she ran into what felt like a brick wall. Something solid had her in invisible clutches that needled at her skin, stabbed at her bones. Yellow Eyes had both hands up; one holding her back, the other hurling her father into the wall, Kate noticed vaguely. She growled, clenching her teeth, and tore free of the hold, shouting as her nerves protested the rough treatment. The Demon's eyes widened for a second, but then he lowered his hand and grinned as she ran at him.

Kate didn't know where the strength to do it came from, but she brought the knife down in a lethal arc, steel blade finding a home in the Demon's heart. Blood welled around the wound, filling her with a satisfaction she was sure she shouldn't feel while _killing_ something, even a monster like this one.

It took a moment to register that her enemy wasn't falling, that the sounds of distress she'd become accustomed to hearing from a dying creature weren't hitting her ears; she raised her eyes to his face.

He was _laughing_.

She felt her face crumple before she could stop it, hot tears sliding down trembling cheeks, features twisted in fury. She folded her fingers around his thick throat and squeezed, even as part of her knew he could throw her off in a moment.

He allowed the show of temper, which made her even angrier.

"Bring him _back_." She didn't recognize her own voice, low and filled with furious intent.

"You know I can," Yellow Eyes said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather, and not the entirety of Kate's world crashing down.

_Dead._

"How?"

"Katie, no!" Dad shouted from faraway. Kate turned in time to see Yellow Eyes shove him back into the wall, hard enough to crack the plaster and probably something in his back. Dad grunted in pain.

"Sit tight, John, let the grown-ups talk."

Kate didn't take her gaze from her father. He was shaking his head fiercely, clearly telling her not to even _talk_ about a deal, to stop while she could.

He didn't understand she never had a choice.

Kate threw one last glance at him—_forgive me, Dad_—and turned back to the Demon. "How?" she asked again. Yellow Eyes smiled.

"We'll make a deal. Dean's life for, oh, say…your soul."

Kate felt something in the vicinity of her heart clench, throat closing up in terror. "What exactly does that mean?" she asked, proud of her voice for not cracking.

"Not much," Yellow Eyes chuckled. "Just that when you die, I own your soul. You come chill with me in Hell, instead of going toward the Light."

Eternity in Hell, in exchange for her brother to live. "And Dean comes back whole and healthy?"

"Good as new," the Demon confirmed.

_Dead._

Dad was growling in the background when Kate nodded. "Deal."

Yellow eyes sparkled, and Kate suddenly found herself on the receiving end of a very unwelcome kiss. The Demon wasn't polite about it either, vicious and harsh and more of an attack than a gesture of affection. Kate yelped and shoved him off, hand coming up in a slap almost out of instinct.

"What the—?"

"How else do you think soul deals are sealed, sweetheart? Handshakes just ain't what they used to be—"

A painfully loud shot thundered through the air in the boiler room, and Kate jumped as she felt a bullet whiz by her ear, missing her by what had to be inches. The Demon's eyes widened as his bones lit up from within, like lightning strikes illuminating the internal frame of his vessel. His breath stuttered, choked, stopped entirely as the body dropped to the ground in front of her. Black smoke issued faintly from the hole in his temple, and Kate forced herself to take a breath.

_Dead_.

Yellow Eyes was dead.

She stared down at the inert body, eyes gone back to their natural blue, and barely registered a faint pity for the Demon's poor vessel before her own situation hit her like a freight train again, and she rounded on Dad.

"Why did you shoot him so fast? We don't even know if he brought Dean back yet!"

Dad was staring at her like he'd never seen her before. She was breathing like she'd just run a marathon, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, little abortive furious movements.

"Are you _seriously_ asking me that right now?" Dad's voice was low; a warning, if she'd cared to take it.

"That whole fucking thing might have been for nothing, if he didn't have time to hold up his end of the deal—"

"Hold up his end…Kate, you just _sold_ your _soul_ to a demon!"

"For Dean, Dad!"

"Are you out of your mind? Dean would kill you—"

"Well he'd better get in line. I wasn't about to just let him die!"

"And now _you're_ going to die! And you're going to go to _Hell_, because a demon _owns_ you!"

"A _dead_ demon," Kate rolled her eyes. "I knew you'd kill him, and I needed him to bring Dean back first. So he owned my soul for about two seconds. He's gone now, it's a moot point."

"A—" Dad looked ready to explode, or maybe faint. Kate wasn't sure which at this point. "_A moot point?_ You—"

"Kate? Dad?"

Sam came round the corner first, hazel eyes almost comically wide, and on his heels a figure that made Kate's knees lock in an attempt to keep her upright. Spiky hair and wild green eyes, skin so pale his freckles stood out like paint splatters on a canvas, Dean stormed into the room, breathing hard.

Kate was pretty sure she stopped breathing entirely, watching in what felt to her like slow motion as Dad crossed the room in two strides and pulled Dean into his arms fiercely. They hugged for a long moment; Dad's shoulders shook as badly as Dean's hands did, and they laughed as they pulled away. Kate wasn't ready for anything even resembling laughter, felt tears coming even as she tried to contain them. But her face was contorting beyond her control, her chest heaving, her legs weak with relief and joy and gratitude and horror and grief. Dean's gaze found her over Dad's shoulder, and he came to her. Folded her in his arms and kissed her head, and her hands found the strength her knees were lacking, latching onto the back of his shirt til it hurt, refusing to let go.

"Katie," he was whispering in her ear when she could finally hear again, blood settling into a more normal pattern of flowing through her veins instead of rushing headlong to one place or another. "Katie, what happened?"

She shook her head, not ready—not_ able_—to address it, not yet.

Naturally, Dad didn't much care what she was emotionally ready to handle. "She made a deal to bring you back, Dean."

"Dad!" There wasn't a _worse_ way to word that, she was convinced. The guilt and horror that flashed over her big brother's face was proof of it. "Dean," she said quickly, trying to forestall the guilt-fest and freak-out session she knew was coming.

"What?!" Sam said loudly behind her, but she talked right over him.

"Dean, it's okay, I had it under control. Dad had the Colt still, and I figured while Yellow Eyes was distracted with me, he'd finish him. I just had to get you back in the process, I couldn't let you—"

"You _figured_?" Dean asked, incredulity still warring with horror on his face. She winced.

"Yes, I figured. I had no way to know for sure. But it's over now! You're back and I'm safe and Yellow Eyes is dead, and can't we please just _celebrate_, you guys?" She looked around at her father and brothers, the only three people she had in the world. "It's over, this thing hanging over our heads for twenty years, it's done. He's dead. Dean," she turned back to him, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. "It's _over_."

* * *

If Kate had been right about one thing, Sam thought, sliding into the vinyl booth of the diner in Munci, Indiana, it was that Yellow Eyes was well and truly dead. His vision-dreams had stopped entirely in the two weeks since that crazy afternoon, and no one had come to collect on Kate's soul deal, so they were all hopeful that she was right about being free of Hell's clutches.

_Hopeful_ was the operative word there, and it wasn't a state of affairs Sam found acceptable. He'd been doing what reading he could on the road since then, and it looked like he was going to be doing a lot more; soul deals weren't well-documented or easy to find information about.

Kate slid in across from him, looking a bit pale despite the current celebratory—and therefore, gently-paced—road trip they were on, hitting up some of their favorite places they'd visited over the years. This diner was one such spot; apple pie so divine, Dean had never forgotten it even though they'd only eaten here once, twelve years ago.

His big brother was beside him—_right where he belonged_, Sam thought—grinning wide enough to crack his face as he made a show of perusing the laminated menu.

"Dude, the burgers here are awesome too. You _cannot_ get a salad tonight," Dean commanded emphatically, and even though Sam huffed and prevaricated, he knew he'd be ordering a burger. He had found himself ridiculously willing to do anything and everything Dean so much as hinted at since his death and subsequent resurrection.

It was a pattern he'd have to quit, before Dean got used to it, the smug bastard.

But watching him now, childlike glee on his face just from being in a burger joint with awesome apple pie, it was hard to do anything to dampen that. Even if it was just a salad.

Kate sighed from across the table, folding her menu quietly and folding her arms over the tabletop, looking at both of them. Sam tilted her head; this was Kate's _We Need To Talk_ pose, and he wondered if they were about to find out why she'd been so tired lately.

She waited until the waitress—a young blonde thing with legs that just wouldn't quit, or at least that's how Dean described her—took their orders and swept away toward the kitchen, taking Dean's gaze with her, before Kate cleared her throat.

"Guys, we gotta talk."

To his credit, Dean's attention snapped back at an impressive speed. He looked attentively at his sister, and Sam wondered if he was seeing what Sam himself saw—the strain underlying Kate's every move, the exhaustion in the lines of her face, the fear in her blue eyes.

"Yeah, we do," Dean answered, without accusation or anger.

Kate looked at each of them in turn, then sighed. "I know you're still mad at me about the soul deal thing, but it's not that."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, but Sam knew where this was going, and braced himself.

"Sam isn't the only one with bizarro psycho powers," Kate confessed, looking straight at Dean, obviously resisting the urge to spill the truth, fast and defensive. Dean froze, but waited for her to continue. Kate took a deep breath. "Mine are different from his. I don't know the details, but…well we know Sam's powers were granted somehow by Yellow Eyes, or had something to do with him at least. Mine were—_are_—the polar opposite."

Sam stopped looking at Dean, attention fixed entirely on Kate.

Her powers were the _opposite_ of his?

Nice of her to tell him so earlier.

Stuffing down his burgeoning anger, he forced himself to listen as she continued.

"Just after the demon thing at Liv's place, weird shit started happening." Kate picked at the edge of the table. "I kept seeing this blue light at the corners of my vision, and then in Lawrence, I saved Sam's life by throwing up some sort of…I don't know, force field, without trying."

Sam blinked, and she looked at him apologetically. "You were unconscious at the time."

"A _force field_?" Dean hissed, incredulous. Kate nodded, shamefaced.

"Yeah, I still haven't been able to replicate that yet. But it freaked me out well and good, so I asked Missouri if there was something wrong with me. She said no, but gave me a sachet of herbs to help me perceive supernatural entities temporarily, in case something was working mojo on me."

Sam nodded—at least she hadn't been a total idiot about the situation.

"But I never used it. I was getting ready to, when this…" Kate trailed off, looking for all the world like she was gathering her courage to say what came next. "This is gonna sound crazy, but…it was an angel I'd been seeing."

Sam's brain stalled. The only thought he could process was _what?_

"What?" Dean asked.

Kate was nodding. "I know, angels. Our lives, man."

"Are you sure it was an actual angel?" Sam found himself asking, then wondered how he'd been coherent enough to even manage that much.

"Yeah," Kate assured. "It was definitely an angel. Being made of light, two wings, super bright and loud, the whole bit. He told me—well, showed me, really—that they, er, Heaven, had decided they needed a…" she seemed to struggle with this part, "_weapon_…to counter the one Hell had created with Sammy."

Sam's blood ran cold.

"What?" came from cotton-dry lips. Kate was staring at him, empathy giving way to stubbornness. She reached across the table and took his hand. He tried to pull back, but she held fast.

"Whatever Yellow Eyes did to you, it was so you could serve Hell when you were, I don't know, ready or whatever." She refused to let his gaze go. "But it doesn't matter now, Sammy, because you're not serving Hell and you never _will_. It doesn't _matter_ now."

Sam clenched his jaw, struggling a little to breathe.

"So what, Sammy got demon power shake and you got angel juice?" Dean asked, and he didn't seem nearly as surprised as Sam thought he ought to be about all this. "Yeah, I know, Kabaiel told me when he was inside my head."

"You didn't tell us that," Sam tried not to make the words accusatory.

"Yeah well, she didn't tell us she's got angel mojo either." Dean startled just a little, looking like something had just occurred to him. "That's how I survived the heart damage, isn't it?"

Kate nodded, looking far more miserable than someone who saved their brothers' life should look.

How messed up were their lives, exactly?

"And that's why you got sick?" Dean asked. Kate nodded again.

"The angel—Nathanael, was his name—told me the human body isn't designed to handle angel grace, so when I use my abilities, it overstimulates all my body processes. Hurts like hell," she confided.

There was silence at the table as the pretty waitress came back with their orders. No one touched their food. Dean barely managed a grateful smile for the girl, who looked disappointed as she walked away.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Dean asked quietly. Sam saw the guilt flash over Kate's face; she had to know that question would be foremost in their minds.

"He told me not to," she said softly, then added quickly, at the looks on their faces, "I know it's not an excuse, I'm not trying to make excuses. But Nathanael, he told me I'd hurt you by telling you, that it would ruin everything, that they'd kill me if I told you because Heaven has a plan and they don't need a 'loose cannon' running about, I believe were his exact words."

So _Heaven_ was blackmailing his sister? Sam was having trouble processing.

"I figured," Kate said. "I figured, it's Heaven, right? If anyone is the good guys, it's them. And even Dad doesn't tell us how all the pieces fit, we just…do what we're told…" she slumped at the end, obviously knowing it was a lame excuse. "I'm…just so sorry."

No one said anything for a few minutes. Sam picked at a piece of lettuce on his cooling burger, not the least bit hungry.

"What changed?" Dean finally asked, startling Kate, who'd been studying the cheap formica table top. She looked up at his question, perhaps startled as Sam was by the lack of resentment in the tone of it.

She looked at him, blinking hard and twisting her mouth into a grimace that was almost as much anger as it was horror.

"Nathanael ordered me not to 'interfere' that night in Salvation. Told me it was all preordained and I had to stay out of it." Her eyes flashed—definitely anger this time—as she looked at Sam. "He wanted me to send you in there to deal with Yellow Eyes on your own, which granted, you mostly did because Kasadya showed up; but I wasn't about to...I couldn't do it, Sam."

One corner of Sam's mouth quirked up in an encouraging little half-smile. "I appreciate that," he said.

"After that, he visited me once, after Yellow Eyes' death. He was…furious." Kate smiled a little, and the expression had a little bit of smugness to it. "He said we changed a lot of things that should never have been changed, and he was pissed about the soul deal."

"Yeah well, on that we agree, at least," Dean muttered, but Kate went on after an apologetic look.

"Said I was worth too much to end up in Hell's hands, blah blah blah. I told him to get lost. He reiterated that Heaven was about to put out their equivalent of a bounty on my head, and that he was through with me. Then he was gone and I've not seen hide nor hair of him since."

"How long ago was that?" Sam asked, slightly concerned. Heaven wasn't exactly powerless; it would probably be a simple matter to find her for them, and he'd very much like to have his sister not dead within the next ten minutes, thanks.

"About a week," Kate confessed, and this time the fear in her eyes was unmistakable, poorly hidden though it was.

"Holy shit," Dean muttered, looking sick.

"We need to see if we can find out anything about warding against angels," Sam decided.

"There's…one more thing," Kate added hesitantly.

"Going for a record here, aren't you, sister?" Dean asked, but he settled back to listen anyway.

Kate fidgeted. "An angel showed up in my dreams last night. Sometimes Nat used to do that. But this one wasn't him. It just told me to meet it, that it could help keep me—keep us all—safe."

"Are you going to meet it?" Sam asked.

"Of course not," Kate looked at him askance. "I just thought…you two should know. We're about to have angels, of all things, on our tail, and I don't have a clue how to handle that."

* * *

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed, everyone! Don't forget to leave a review, my muse eats them up like pumpkin chocolate chip muffins!


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**A/N: I'm back!** And I've returned triumphant: the first draft of my first original novel is FINISHED! So while I'm editing away at that, I've come back to y'all with a new chapter, in March, as promised! Enjoy, and don't forget to review—I'm always ALWAYS interested in your thoughts and opinions!

As always, cheers to the SPNsters, particularly **Nova42** and **Chrissie0707**, for their constant support and ass-kickery! It's so much more fun to fan with other people, and these girls make my fandom experience incredible.

* * *

The black '67 Impala kicked up gravel as it sped into Singer's Salvage Yard, but any alarm such an entrance may have caused was quickly assuaged when the occupants' faces came into view. There were three of them, two guys and a young woman, and they were all smiling. As the sleek black beast of a car slid into her usual parking spot, the driver's whoop of exhilaration could be heard from the porch of Bobby Singer's house. The older man grinned under his tattered trucker's cap and waved. Sam, dimples on full display as he laughed at something Kate had said, opened the door and waved back enthusiastically.

"Hey, Bobby!" he called. His siblings echoed the greeting as all three got out of the car, and their surrogate uncle returned it. Sam let himself be folded into a rough hug when he reached the porch and then saw himself inside. Bobby had greeted Dean and was giving Kate a longer-than-usual hug, and he wasn't about to get in the way.

Dad came down the stairs as he entered the house, and Sam found himself smiling again as he embraced his father. He hadn't seen the man in weeks, as John had opted out of what Dean fondly referred to as their "Victory Tour"—twenty of their favorite spots, coast to coast, in thirty days—and he was surprised to realize he'd missed him. Dad seemed to be of the same mind, squeezing him tight and muttering a gruff, "good to see you, son" in his ear.

Eventually, they all moved their whole happy party into the living room, and Bobby disappeared to get beers. Kate and Dean were on the couch, Dad in the chair, and Sam leaned against the wall contentedly—he'd been sitting far too much the last few days as they made their final run into South Dakota, and his legs were sore. He nodded his thanks as Bobby nudged his shoulder with a cold bottle and took it gratefully.

"How was it?" Dad was asking, obviously referring to their first-ever truly-relaxing road trip. Kate and Dean gave him the exact same grin, and Sam rolled his eyes, knowing exactly where this was going.

"It was awesome, Dad," Dean answered smoothly. "We hit up Rosie's Diner in Tallahassee, that park near the house we rented outside of Denver, Sam mooned everyone in Hocking Hills, and then we drove Route 66 all the way from Chicago to LA."

Dad was laughing by the end, eyeing Sam across the room. "Had a bit too much to drink that night, son?"

Sam made a mocking bitch-face in return. "No, I was painfully sober, thanks to my delightful siblings."

"Skinny dipping in an Ohio lake to see who could last longest was _your_ idea, Sammy," Kate was all wide blue eyes and innocence. "And it was your belated birthday celebration, we just _had_ to go along with it."

"I suppose you _had_ to give in first and second just so you could make off with my clothes, too?" Sam asked. He wasn't even mad, it had been funny as hell; but he wasn't about to let his siblings know it. Dad and Bobby were both snickering, so he rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, hilarious, shut up."

Dad guffawed, and now Dean was laughing—_again_—though Kate just favored him with a truly evil grin. Sam felt something in the vicinity of his chest clench, watching them all.

This was perfect, or the closest he ever expected to come to it. He let himself smile.

Once everyone had regained their composure, Dean spoke up again. "But we got work to do; so it was fun and all, but we're here to get back to the grind." Dad and Bobby both nodded, unsurprised.

"You kids thought about what you wanna do with yourselves?" Bobby asked, gaze bouncing between the three of them. Dad appeared to be content just listening, shockingly.

Sam blinked, though, surprised by the question. "Hunting, of course," he said. Kate nodded, though Dean kept his eyes on Sam. He understood his brother's confusion; after all, Sam had been the one always so eager to get away from the Family Business, to go off and do his own thing, to have his own life.

But with what he knew now? Angels and demons and his family somehow thrust into the middle of it all…it seemed important to stay, at least for now. He could always go back later, once Kate was safe and his family disentangled from what apparently amounted to a preternatural war.

"Actually, I was thinking you may want to go back to school." Sam's jaw dropped in shock as the words left his father's mouth. Both Dean and Kate stared at Dad too, who grinned a little in response to their reactions. "What? I'm not _completely_ oblivious to the fact that you guys are actual human beings in addition to hunters. You've got hopes and dreams, just as you should, and you should be able to pursue them."

"Christo," Dean said, looking at Dad with only-slightly-exaggerated suspicion. Their father's smile turned sad.

"It's really me." Then he looked back at Sam. "Your entire life, son, I've been trying to protect you from Yellow Eyes. I didn't know exactly what he wanted, but I knew it could only be sheer evil; and the only way I knew to keep you safe was to keep you close." Sam felt a hitch in his chest that he identified as sorrow. "When you left, it was the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced. You, out there on your own, smart and strong and completely unaware of the danger…but if I'd told you, it would've made everything worse." Dad's voice wavered. "I've only ever wanted you safe and happy. And if I had to choose between the two, I'd want you safe even at the expense of your happiness. I won't apologize for that."

Complete silence reigned. Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing; it was everything he'd ever hoped for. Dad got hold of himself after a moment, and continued. "But now Yellow Eyes is dead. Your mother is avenged, and more than that, you're no longer vulnerable to his machinations. Sammy, you're safe now." Then Dad smiled again, and this one was all joy. "And you're whip-smart. So go to school, get your degree, and become whatever you want. I think you—and your brother and sister—are owed a little happiness at this point."

Sam stood there for a minute, trying to absorb. Dad's blessing to go back to Stanford? He wanted to go, obviously, but he'd expected to have to fight for it. Though he had promised himself he would not lose his temper or say such things as he had the first time—he was much older now, and, he hoped, wiser—he had known it would be a struggle to convince Dad he needed to go.

And he did need to go. Hunting was all well and good, and now that he was back in it, he had truly lost the disdain he once held for the profession; but it was also not the best use of his talents. Sam was a scholar at heart, and he knew it. Knowledge and its many uses meant more to him than brute force—and he knew there was a place for both in their lives.

"Stanford _does_ have one of the most extensive libraries in the country," Kate was saying, like she knew exactly where his head was at. "A library chock full of ancient lore and rare texts. You'd have access to things there you wouldn't otherwise have." Now she was appealing to the promise he'd given her, to find ways to ward against angel attacks. He'd had no luck online or in the few books they actually carried in the Impala, but he'd intended to have a peek at some of Bobby's texts while they were here. It dawned on him, suddenly, that Kate had a point. Dad was nodding, Dean was watching Sam closely.

"Is it what you want, Sammy?" his older brother asked. Sam looked at him—only at him—and nodded. He was relieved to see the flicker of pride in Dean's eyes, just before his brother cracked a smile, finally. "Well then, go, man. You do you."

Sam blinked hard—he wasn't getting teary, that'd be ridiculous—as it hit him just how badly he'd needed Dean's approval. More than even Dad's, he knew, for he'd have gone back to Stanford with or without Dad's blessing and it'd have hardly bothered him. But _Dean_…he wanted Dean to understand, needed him to know he wasn't abandoning them, wanted more than anything for the man who practically _raised_ him to bless his chosen path in life. He forced a shaky grin and nodded.

"Okay."

* * *

The next few days at Bobby's were a flurry of activity. Sam spent a lot of time on the phone with Stanford Admissions, exploring his options for going back. Kate read everything Bobby had—which wasn't much—on angels and how to avoid them. It was depressing how little information there was, though Kate didn't say as much to her brothers. Dean worked on the car when he wasn't sharpening knives and making salt rounds, going through all the familiar motions of getting ready to hit the road again.

The third night, they sat around the den reading; well, everyone but Dean and Dad was reading. They two were talking quietly at the kitchen table, heads bent close over Dad's journal. Kate quirked a smile at the sight and went back to her book, a massive ancient tome that Bobby had just grinned when she'd asked how he'd gotten hold of. Blinking to clear her achy eyes, she tried to concentrate.

That was when a soft noise from across the room drew her attention. Meg Masters was standing in the doorway, dressed to leave, new clothes, a tough jacket, and backpack slung over one shoulder. It was the first Kate had seen of the woman since the day she'd been un-demoned and nearly killed, so she took the opportunity to study Meg for just a moment.

As a demon, Meg—well_, Kasadya, _really—had been all swagger and lithe confidence, like a snake. She'd carried herself with an easy impudence, radiating self-possession wherever she went. It was an attractive trait, and she'd known how to use that too, deadly flirtatiousness always present in her delicate smirking mouth and fluttering eyelashes. Human Meg couldn't have been more different if she tried. She stood ramrod-straight, tension in every line of her body. There was a strange jerkiness to the nod she gave Bobby, as though she'd forgotten how to do it. Her wide hazel eyes were a storm of emotion visible even halfway across the room—fear, grief, horror, determination—and though her features were considerably softer than before, her mouth was turned down and her jaw a rigid line of stubbornness.

Kate knew that look. Meg Masters was about to do something incredibly stupid.

"The demon—" the young woman began, stumbling a bit over the word. Everyone looked up, including Dad and Dean, and Meg ducked her head for a moment before looking back up and staring Dad down. It occurred to Kate that Meg may be one of those not-so-rare individuals who was both insanely stubborn and shy all at once. "Kasadya," Meg continued, her voice stronger now. "She said you were the best hunter out there."

Kate looked to Dad, who was staring at the girl before him as though he'd never seen anything quite like her before. Perhaps he hadn't. When Meg didn't go on, he seemed to realize she was waiting for a response.

"I'm good," Dad said, shrugging one shoulder. It was a humble brush-off, one of Dean's favorite gestures when someone started complimenting or thanking him.

That answer seemed to satisfy Meg though. She nodded once. "Train me then."

Kate stared. That, of all the expected requests or questions, was the last one she would have seen coming. Hadn't the girl had quite enough of the supernatural at this point?

Dad, however, didn't seem surprised at all. He didn't miss a beat before he looked back down at his journal. "No," was his answer.

"Please."

"No," Dad said again.

Meg grit her teeth. "Why not?"

Dad looked back up at her, his face carefully blank. "You're a civilian."

"So were you," Meg pointed out. She looked around the room, to Dean, Sam, finally to Kate. "So were _they_."

Dad's eyes flashed. "I was a Marine. They were raised into this. You have been neither, Ms. Masters. For the last time, no." It was one of those final _'no's_, the dangerous kind that meant you should stop asking _right the hell now_.

Meg didn't know Dad well enough to know that; but she evidently heard it in his tone. "Then I hope you can live with your conscience," she said, and crossed to the other side of the room, backpack in hand. She placed some folded bills on Bobby's desk. "As we agreed," Kate heard her say quietly. "Is the Passat ready?"

Bobby nodded. "She is. But _you're_ not."

"He's not going to do it," Meg said. She didn't sound angry or sad, just factual. "And I need to be out there. I'll learn on my own, like he and everyone else did."

"Wait," Dean blurted, standing. "You're just going to…_go_? Hunt? Just like that?" Kate sat up a little straighter, ready to run interference if she had to; like Dean, and clearly Bobby, she wasn't comfortable with the idea of the girl just running off on her own. Hunters learned that way, true, but they also died that way.

"Apparently I have no choice."

Kate turned an imploring gaze to her father, who was staring intently at the blonde poised in the doorway. If she'd been trying to get his attention, she clearly had it now. Kate wondered if that was as good a thing as Meg was hoping for.

"You can't do that," Dad said, and his voice was deadly quiet, with that unquestionable authority of his. Meg's eyes narrowed.

"I can, and I will," she retorted. "_You_ play host to a fucking _demon_ for an entire year and then tell me you don't want to do something about it. I saw enough in that…_thing's_…mind to know there are legions more, just like her. Them, and other things too; monsters and ghosts and spirits, all threats to regular, normal people like I used to be." Meg took a couple of steps closer, clearly letting loose everything that had been on her mind, probably for the entire month she'd been recovering at Bobby's. "I have a baby sister, did you know that? Four years younger than me, sweetest thing you ever saw; and all I can think about is what if it had been her? What if later, it _is _her? What if a demon gets hold of her, or a ghost, or a vampire? What if it's someone else's sister, daughter, or friend?" Wide hazel eyes sparkled with furious unshed tears. "I won't let it happen. I'm going to get out there and kill as many of those bastards as I can. When they hear the name Meg Masters, every single one of those sons of bitches is gonna shake in their boots."

No one said a word for at least fifteen agonizing seconds. Meg was breathing like she'd just run a mile, though she refused to let go of Dad's gaze. John stared right back, searching for something in her face. Whatever it was, he must have found it, because he broke the silence with a sigh.

"All right then," he conceded. "I'll train you. But you do _exactly_ as I say when I say to do it, or deal's off, hear?"

* * *

Dean finished prepping Baby for the road the next morning. The day was just warming, the air stuffy enough already to be oppressive, and he was on a mission. He had business to do with his sister, and though he knew Kate would laugh at him for being so formal, he also knew she would appreciate it. Just because he wasn't much for verbal declarations of…well, _anything_…didn't mean he wouldn't leave his comfort zone for the sake of one of his siblings.

You know, once in a while.

He saw his sister on the porch, drinking coffee. Her blonde hair was mussed and there were dark smudges under her eyes—a night poorly spent, he guessed. It made something warm and soft bloom in his chest, and he threw an arm over her shoulder when he joined her on the deck, tucking her into his side. Kate grunted a greeting—even morning people weren't chatty after a bad night, apparently—and he tried not to be _too_ mother hennish when he asked, "Didn't sleep?"

She didn't answer at first, for so long that he wondered if she'd heard him. Then she sighed and leaned almost imperceptibly into him. "That angel showed up in my head again," she confessed quietly. "He's…very tenacious."

Dean took half a second to wonder at her—he knew if he'd been mentally accosted by a supernatural being all night, he wouldn't be using words like _tenacious_ before he'd even finished his coffee—then scowled. "Son of a bitch is lucky he doesn't have a physical form. I'd beat him right out of it." Kate snorted a half-hearted laugh, which made Dean grin. "What? I would."

"If anyone could, it'd be you, big brother."

They lapsed into silence for a minute, watching the waves of heat dance across the not-so-distant horizon, until Dean squeezed Kate's shoulder. "I wanted to talk to you, actually."

She squinted up at him. "Oh yeah?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Kate, will you be my hunting partner?"

She blinked for a second, then genuine amusement registered on her face; though he caught the flash of gratitude, quickly hidden. She laughed out loud and shoved against his side playfully.

"I don't know, let me think about it," she answered, then sipped her coffee, looking off into the distance as if pondering one of life's great mysteries. "I think…yes. I will accept that offer."

He couldn't help it; he laughed too, glad he'd decided to ask her outright instead of just letting the matter be unspoken—which it would have been. She would have come with him regardless. But tacit, silent assumption was different than what they'd just done; this verbal agreement was much more than a request for a hunting partner, and they both knew it. He was promising to have her back, and she his, to fight the monsters together and on equal footing. What was more, in his mind, this was a silent oath to protect her from whatever Heaven and Hell had planned—angels or demons and everything else be damned.

They'd saved Sammy from Azazel. Now it was time to free Kate too.

They were still laughing when Dad came out of the house a moment later, hunting bag slung over one shoulder. He saw them and nodded. "Was hoping to find you two."

"Are you leaving, Dad?" Dean asked. He wasn't surprised; the man had been itching to get a move on since they arrived, it was obvious. Dad nodded.

"Meg coming with you?"

"Sure is," Dad answered. "I don't expect that will last long, though. This is a tougher life than she's used to."

"Not sure it gets much tougher than playing a demon's prom dress for a year," Kate offered, a single eyebrow raised in skepticism. "She might surprise you. At least try to give her an honest chance, yeah?"

Dad nodded. "Speaking of. Since you two will be hunting together—you _will_ be hunting together, right?" They both nodded, smiling. "Thought so. I want you to have this." He handed them a leather-bound book Dean recognized instantly, since he'd been carrying it around for months now.

"But," he protested. "Don't you need this?"

Dad shrugged. "Nah, I know it pretty much cover to cover by now. And anyway, if I need something, I can just call you, right?" Dean couldn't stop the grin spreading over his face—it wasn't much, in the way of fluff, but this was practically a blessing from Dad. The man may as well have laid hands on both their heads and recited old Latin or something. He nodded, noting Kate doing the same beside him. "Good," Dad said. "Kate, I think Sam is wanting you. He was muttering something about sigils a minute ago."

Kate laughed, kissed Dad on the cheek, and went inside. Dad jerked his head toward the truck, motioning Dean to follow as he moved toward the monster of a vehicle. "You keep a lookout for your sister," Dad said, and Dean took an odd comfort in the familiarity of the order.

"Of course."

"No, Dean," Dad tossed the bag in the back seat and turned to face his eldest. He fixed Dean with a hard stare. "I mean it. _You take care of her_. Got it?"

Dad knew something was up. They'd carefully glossed over details of what was going on with Kate—her idea, not his, he'd voted to enlist their help—but apparently it didn't much matter. Dad knew something was going on, and Dean was glad. If Dad's hackles were up, then he knew it was bad; and _that_ meant they'd have both Sammy and Dad on the case to try and figure this thing out. All Dean had to do was keep her safe.

And he'd been doing that all his life.

He returned his father's hard stare, willing the man to hear the absolute resolve in what he _wasn't_ saying.

"Always."


End file.
